


We Are Merely Shadows

by Merely_Shadows



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Epiphanies for Everyone, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Abuse, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-12
Updated: 2008-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16758988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merely_Shadows/pseuds/Merely_Shadows
Summary: A young Dunmer turns to violence to reclaim agency over her life, only to have it turned against her in the most unlikely way by an idealistic mage.  Whether redemption is the course she wants or not, it is the course she is set upon.  The origin story of Shadowmere, Lucian Lachance's beloved mare.





	We Are Merely Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on Fanfiction.net in about 2008 under the name JediShyala. Updating to fit the times. If more tags would be helpful, let me know.
> 
> Yes, I did choose my username on Ao3 based on writing this story :)

“We Are Merely Shadows…”

“Shadows are not an absence of light...”  
~Skelos Undriel; Shadowmage

It was just before sunset as the broadly shouldered man rode on a raven mare to the Black Waterside Stables outside of Cheydinhal, the two moons just starting to come into view in the red streaked sky. They hadn’t traveled terribly far, but the terrain wasn’t the smoothest and the mare was tired. Dismounting the beautiful horse, the man patted her on the neck for a job well done, giving a fond smile to his long time equine companion.

“I’ll probably be most of the night Shadowmere, so rest easy,” he murmured in his gravelly voice, though normally unsettling and even frightening, there was a tone of unmistakable fondness intertwined in the words. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning.” With that, he stroked the soft velvet of her nose and turned to Tovas, the young, dark elf proprietor of the Cheydinhal stables, who had just come in to the stable.

“Good to see you again Mr. Lachance, just one night as usual?” he asked, as cordially as he could, though his intimidated mannerisms were hard to ignore. 

“Yes, we’ll be leaving in the morning, so make sure she’s brushed down properly,” Lucien Lachance said, using his intimidating timbre on the Dunmer, all the fondness flushed from his voice. “And only the finest feed, I’m not paying you for mediocrity.” The man nodded, too uneasy to say anything. Though she knew Lucien was fond of her, it always made Shadowmere feel good to hear him insist on her care. He strode away, his confident form disappearing through the Cheydinhal city gates. Shuddering, Tovas walked over to Shadowmere, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Lucien was really gone.

“I don’t know what it is, but that man gives me the creeps,” he said, half to himself half to Shadowmere. “Of course with those bright red eyes of yours, you used to give me the creeps too.” Just to make him feel more uncomfortable, Shadowmere stared directly at him. She succeeded, Tovas’s face contorting with anxiety. “That’s not funny, stop that!” he said, his voice tense. Shadowmere nickered, finding it very funny, on the contrary, since Tovas, being a Dunmer, naturally had the bright red eyes that were characteristic of the race.

“There’s my girl,” Mivryna, Tovas’s stable hand, among other things, said, walking up to Shadowmere and scratching her behind her ear. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it girl?” Shadowmere nuzzled against Mivryna’s neck. She liked Mivryna; she seemed to be one of the only ones, other than Lucien, who appreciated her as something more than a horse.

“ ‘Your girl’ is trying to screw with my head,” Tovas complained, hauling a bale of hay to the manger in front of Shadowmere. “I was telling her that her eyes used to creep me out and she got into a staring contest with me.” Mivryna laughed, rolling her eyes and patting Shadowmere’s forehead, sliding a shiny red apple to her lips.

“Have you looked in the mirror Tovas? Your eyes are the same as hers! Staring was her way of calling you an idiot.” If she could have, Shadowmere would have smirked at Tovas. She settled for crunching the apple Mivryna had just delivered and watching the two Dunmer go about their chores. It was late, and they looked tired, but seemed to enjoy the time together, their voices jovial and laughing. After enjoying the finest feed they had, Shadowmere began nodding off a little as Mivryna brushed her with a currycomb. Shadowmere let herself nap, her eyes growing heavy, but jerked awake at the sound of Mivryna’s shriek.

“Tovas!” she yelped, laughing. Shadowmere looked to the side and saw Tovas holding Mivryna around the waist, kissing down her neck. “In front of the horses?!” Tovas laughed, bringing his lips from her skin for a moment.

“They don’t seem to mind,” he flirted. As Mivryna gave in and returned his affections, Shadowmere rolled her eyes and turned around, knowing what this was going to lead to. It never ceased to amaze her what people were comfortable doing in front of animals. Listening carefully, Shadowmere heard them disappear to the darker part of the stable, hidden from the light, but their shadows revealing their every movement; limbs entangling, hips thrusting, bodies pressed close.

“It’s because we are mere shadows in this world, girl, cast according to the light that hits us. Some lights make shadows dim, some bright, some badly distorted, some revealing what we really are. The trick is to know the difference between bad light and the true self.” 

The thought floated to the surface of Shadowmere’s mind, bringing memories she hadn’t thought of in years. As her eyes drifted shut in sleep, she remembered that her life would have been drastically different if it hadn’t been for one day, long lost in the shadows of her mind.

* * *

The blows raining down on her face came as a bitter relief to the teenaged Dunmer girl as she was slammed into the filthy stone and whitewash wall, enduring her first beating of the day.

“At least it’s not the other punishment,” she thought, comforting herself as one of Tavrel’s fists struck her squarely in the nose, her eyes began spewing tears involuntarily as the bones crunched and blood gushed from her nostrils. The slate-skinned man before her smiled perversely at the gruesome picture he had painted with blood and bruises on her face, his ember eyes burning holes in her.

“What are you crying for girl? Does it hurt? Do you wish someone would help you?” Tavrel asked, seething in his maelstrom of malevolence. She kept her mouth shut and looked away, the one element of control she maintained, knowing eye contact would only encourage him, and words would never be her salvation. For thirteen years, no one had come to her rescue, and every moment a savior failed to come made the beatings last that much longer. Her cousin, or her mother’s cousin, she couldn’t even remember, had taken to this perverse habit whenever he was drinking, bored or had had a bad day at the mine; sometimes he did so without a concrete reason.

“Has anyone ever come to help you?” His punches now landed lower, making her grunt as he struck her flat stomach and ribs with strength enough to make a horse see double. 

“Know why they don’t come?” He let her go, kicking her as her small form hit the floor. She curled into a ball on instinct, covering her face from further indignation. Relentlessly, he kicked and stomped on her legs. Despite the fact that her knees were curled into her chest, his foot landed viciously on the side of her left knee. She couldn’t help but gasp as she felt her kneecap pop out of place, the movement of the bones audibly similar to a mortar and pestle grinding together.  
The sound somehow satisfying to Tavrel, he gave her one last kick and smirked as he pulled his cock out of his pants. “It’s because you’re worthless,” he said as he relieved himself on her, the stink unbelievably strong even through her broken nose. Shaking off the last drops of urine, he shoved his member back into its place and turned away. 

“Ilura!” he bellowed, rolling his sleeves down and pulling on his leather boots. A timid, overly thin Dunmer woman appeared around the corner to the kitchen.

“Yes,” she said meekly, though she tried to look braver than she was. Jerking his head toward the girl in the crumpled heap, he tightened the straps on his boots.

“Clean that up, I don’t want to have to look at that mess when I come home.” Without another word, Tavrel grabbed his lunch bag and pickaxe and strutted out of the small house, his body completely relaxed, entirely comfortable with the torment he’d inflicted and the domination he’d reinforced.  
The resonance of the door slamming was the signal the girl waited for; she let out a long, pent up moan of pain. She rolled over on her back, clutching her ribs as she tried to catch her breath, barely cognizant of anything except the throbbing in her face and the pounding in her knee.

“Hold on honey, I’m coming,” Ilura called from the other room, bustling around and gathering makeshift first aid supplies. As she waited, the girl relaxed into the coolness of the floor, the cold calming her bruised body. It was hard to not cry, but she was good at it by now. It wasn’t because she wanted to be tough and invincible, it was mostly because when she cried it made her face hurt; if her face hurt anymore right then, it was in danger of splitting in two.

“Oh he did a number on you today,” Ilura said, kneeling before her and with skilled hands, began wiping the blood from her face, uncovering the girl’s lapis blue skin beneath the torrents of crimson. The girl said nothing, wincing a little as the woman’s rag crossed the various cuts on her cheeks from Tavrel’s rings. “Do you know what set him off?” Ilura asked continuing her first aid, the girl not looking at her as she shook her head. Tavrel’s actions rarely had any basis in fact, but if one followed the thread for long enough they might find some reason tangled inside the yarn ball of skooma and beer.  
This time though, she had just been sleeping on her pallet by the fireplace, and she was rudely awakened by Tavrel’s fist on the back of her head, shortly followed by him grabbing a handful of her hair and dragging her to the wall, where the assault officially began. She had only had enough consciousness to keep her feet under her and stele her mind for what would come. “Did he break anything?” Keeping her scarlet eyes down, she forced herself to sit up, pointing to her nose, shuddering from a sudden stab of pain in her leg.

“By dose,” she muttered, her voice sounding congested, unable to speak clearly through the break.

“Your nose?” Ilura asked, gently tilting the girl’s chin up with her thin, powder blue hands so she could get a better look. “It looks like he also got your leg,” she said, inspecting the girl’s nose. Glancing down, the girl was repulsed by how swollen and how off-center her knee looked, locked in a bent position.

“I don’t dink iss brokend,” she forced out. “Juss oud of place.” Ilura nodded, setting her sights back on her nose.

“I’ll put it back in place after we fix this nose. Do you want to do it or do you want me to?” Between the two of them, the two women netted more than seventy five broken noses. They had learned how to set the breaks out of necessity. 

“Awl do id,” she said as resolutely as she could while sounding like a seven year old with hay fever. Gingerly running her battered fingers over the disfigured appendage, feeling for which way it was broken. Taking a breath, she firmly gripped the middle of her nose. Bravely, she jerked it down and to the right, feeling the bones shift under the skin, and a downpour of warm, sticky blood surging from her. “Gods!” she shouted through clenched teeth, taking a moment to let her body relax after the drastic pain. Anticipating the spurt, Ilura pressed a rag into her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Ilura said, unhappily accustomed to making apologies for her husband’s behavior. The shift in pain had wrenched the girl’s mind from its necessary survival orientation to one of an unadulterated hatred, her eyes raging.

“If you were sorry you wouldn’t let him do this,” she spat venomously. “If you were sorry, you’d take us both to the city guard and tell them what he does to us.” Ilura shook her head in shame.

“No, if I were stronger, I wouldn’t let him do this,” she said, her rosy eyes sad and practically dripping with self-loathing. “If I was braver I would alert the city guard.” She smiled pitifully, the smile of a woman who had resigned herself to her unhappy fate. “I accepted my weaknesses a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry for them.” She moved to the girl’s side, cupping her heel in one hand, and the dislocated knee in the other. “You’ll probably want something to bite on,” she warned the girl with the voice of experience. Looking around, the girl found a wooden fork that had been knocked to the floor during the attack. Clenching the handle in her teeth, she nodded to Ilura. With kind, but unyielding hands, she straightened the girl’s leg, pushing the knee back to center. Gasping, the girl bit hard on the fork, bending over her now straightened but still engorged leg. Pressing a healing potion into her hand, Ilura stood up and wiped her hands on her apron, having done all she could. Popping the cap, the girl downed the soothing liquid in a single quaff, a feeling of relief flooding her aching appendages. 

“You should go wash up in the river,” she advised, helping the girl to her feet. “He’s probably got something else in mind for when he gets home.” The girl felt a chill run over her spine at the thought and Ilura’s almost nonchalant tone of voice at the prospect. “Plus the cold water will help with the swelling,” Ilura added, going back to doing the dishes, the first of her morning chores done. Grabbing a clean shirt and pants, the girl wordlessly walked out, limping heavily.  
She knew where the river was, she had been sent there many times to wash herself, or get water for Ilura to wash herself, but she didn’t know the name of the river. She didn’t know the name of the mine where Tavrel worked, she didn’t know where the closest city or settlement was. After an attempted escape, Tavrel had cut her off from the world. All she knew about the world around her was that it sucked, and that it sucked in Eastern Cyrodiil, far enough from the Morrowind border that she couldn’t run away. 

“So Ilura can’t run away either,” she thought bitterly. She didn’t like when she thought ill of Ilura; she knew she felt guilty about Tavrel, but the deepest part of Ilura’s guilt was borne from her own actions. 

“I really thought having a little girl in the house would calm him, make him more gentle,” Ilura had told her any number of times, referring to the reason the girl’s distant relatives took her in when she was just two years old. “If I had known he would become what he has…” Ilura’s voice always trailed off, as though she wasn’t sure just what she would do if she had been granted such foresight. 

“I wouldn’t let some drunken son of a bitch control my life.” She knew the answer before she had even fully comprehended the question. The girl felt the anger working its way back to her, no longer hindered by the pain in her battered body; thirteen years of anger. She didn’t honestly know what it felt like to not be angry, or filled with fear, or feigning such apathy that she genuinely couldn’t feel what was happening in her body. That was one of the few elements of power she had; blocking both physical and emotional pain.

She glanced at her shadow moving perfectly along with her. She used to be jealous of her shadow; it was beautiful, without scars or fear, and it could hide from Tavrel. It couldn’t feel the pain, or long for something better. A shadow could easily be the best part of a person.  
Making sure she was alone, she let her sin-black hair out of its ragged braid, a fair sized chunk coming out in her hands from where Tavrel had pulled her out of bed.

“Boar screwer,” she muttered, tossing the piece to the side, the strands dancing carelessly on the breeze as they took the freedom the girl only dreamt of. Stripping her clothes off, she waded warily into the bitterly cold water of the river. Pushing past the pain, she submerged her body up to her shoulders, feeling her skin pucker. As the water settled around her, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the still surface. Through the swelling and small cuts, she could see that she was still recognizable. Her high round cheeks were riddled with bruises, but intact. Her full amethyst lips were split but would heal quickly. Her dull white teeth were all where they belonged, and the healing potion would assure they would stay there. The only thing that looked slightly different was her nose. It had been an average nose before, perhaps even a little smaller and button-ish, but every time he broke it, it would heal a little differently than it had been. This time, it was set into a hooked, bird-like beak. Angry at the change and disgusted with herself, she splashed the reflection, watching it disappear into a thousand crystal fragments. 

Though shivering, and upset about the change in her nose, she took advantage of the lucidity of the water to inspect the damage that had been done to her. As her eyes fell over her lean body, she couldn’t help but look at the scars left from previous times. Most people, she knew, had a family copy of the Anuad, or other sacred books, where important family events, births, weddings, deaths, were written. 

She didn’t have the Anuad; she had her scars. A long jagged scar on her right forearm was from when she was six years old and Tavrel had decided she couldn’t have a name anymore. She couldn’t even remember what her name had been; she just remembered that she’d had one. But after Tavrel sliced her arm three or four times with a piece of broken glass for repeating her name, she let the moniker fall from her mind like the last autumn leaf from a tree. Running her fingers over the soft, purple tinged skin, she remembered remorsefully the time when she still had the resiliency to fight against him. 

Her hand going to the back of her neck, she fingered the deformed skin there, from when she was ten. That was the fight where she had finally given up; she stopped fighting back, stopped protesting, and stopped howling in pain. It was as though her soul had died and her body didn’t know enough to stop living. That beating had been the result of her finally going to the city guard, showing them her bruises and scars. The damned Cyrodiils claimed she had no bruises; they had just been too blind to see the deep nightshade purple bruises embedded in her dark Dunmer skin. They had taken her home, and told Tavrel everything she had said. He had put on a good show, saying how she was ‘disturbed in the head’ and the scars were from having to restrain her when she got violent. The moment they were gone, Tavrel had been merciless.

Unable to stop herself, she ran a trembling hand over her right breast, the memoir of Tavrel’s true malevolence and desecration of her body, letting it rest on the badly mangled nipple, which had nearly been severed by his teeth. She had been eleven. Letting her hand drop, she tried to forget the memories as she tipped her head back into the water, letting the icy cold cool her angry scalp, hoping it would finally wash the memory away.

“Why do I bother to remember these things? Why torture myself,” she thought to herself, letting the current rinse the dirt and sweat from her hair. She already knew: the anger, the humiliation, the despair she felt from each of those scars, each of those physical memories, reassured her that she was still alive, still human.  
Momentarily comforted, she lifted her head, the cold water drizzling down her shoulders. Just then, she happened to see a butterfly, many shades of black and purple and blue, flying about her face, almost mocking the black, blue and purple of her swollen countenance. It seemed to be flaunting its beauty, its freedom, laughing at her

“It’s just a bug,” she told herself as she felt her anger rising. It was then that the butterfly landed on her nose, right where she had held to set the break. Something inside her snapped, her mind becoming detached, her fury unleashed. Snatching the butterfly she crushed the wicked creature in her hand. “Not fair is it?!” She tore the wings away from the body, her vision obscured with temporary madness. “So pretty, so free, all gone now; just not fair!” She ground her hands together and left the body of the butterfly no more than a sticky mass in her palm. 

As she watched the wings drifting downstream, like tiny dark lily pads, the girl realized she was shaking, not from cold, but from the exhilaration of having fought back and won. Yes, it was small, and petty, but it was the only victory, the only control, she had ever felt in her entire life. 

Scraping the body from her palm, she flung it into the water, rubbing her hands together to clean them, feeling more empowered than she would have thought herself capable of. Ideas, dreams more likely, began flooding her mind, giving her reason to hope as she climbed out of the water. Stopping to look at her shadow once again, it seemed to have changed from the limping, crumpled silhouette that had walked with her to the river. It walked straighter, with more confidence.

But the shadow on the ground hadn’t had the epiphany she had just experienced, and it couldn’t help form the ideas that now spread through her mind like brushfire through a meadow. As she dried herself off with her night shirt, the corners of her mouth began to curl upward, an expression with which she was almost completely unfamiliar.

“Tonight will go more differently than Tavrel can even imagine,” she murmured. Her shadow couldn’t share the sparse smile that crept across her face.

Azura’s glorious dusk was starting to wax when Tavrel came home. The girl had kept very quiet the whole day, not wanting to implicate Ilura in her plans, should something go awry. 

“Leave your nightshirt outside if you like,” Ilura had said as she had walked inside. “I’m doing some laundry later; I’ll take care of it for you.” Only too happy to remove the urine-soaked garment from where she pinched it in her fingertips, the girl tossed it outside the door and set about planning. 

Thoughts had been swirling madly through her mind, moving like a frantic newborn who, for the first time, had been able to freely move her limbs. She had found two healing potions hidden in with the spices in the kitchen, and asked Ilura if she could take them. Assuming her new injuries were acting up, Ilura nodded never suspecting that the girl packed them in a small sack, along with a small writing tablet and charcoal pencil, and an old rusty dagger. She had few possessions to pack, the tablet, pencil, her nightshirt and the clothes on her back were the only things she could really call her own. She didn’t care to bring the stained and worn nightshirt with her, and she had little choice but to wear the clothes. She sat patiently on her pallet, drawing pictures on the stone beside her with a piece of charcoal. 

Finally, she heard the unmistakable sound of Tavrel singing a sea chantey and staggering through the tall grasses that grew around their home.

“O, hey sweet lady of Wayrest,  
O hey sweet lady of mine!  
I’ll see you again, yes I’ll see you again  
Sweet lady of Wayrest so fine!”

As Tavrel stumbled inside, it became increasingly obvious that, in addition to the sandwich Ilura had packed him for lunch, his meal had been supplemented by upwards of seven bottles of beer.

“He’s much bigger than the butterfly,” she noted. “Then again, the butterfly wasn’t shit-faced.” Throwing his pickaxe and empty lunch bag to the side, Tavrel didn’t look at either Ilura or the girl.

“Girl,” he slurred, barely able to stand while he attempted to pull the mud caked boot from his left foot. “Get those pants off.” Feeling snakes curling and rattling in the pit of her stomach, the girl looked him in the eyes for the first time in recent memory.

“No.” 

Ilura dropped the spoon she had been using to stir dinner, her tired eyes now as wide and alert as an owl’s. Tavrel released his foot, his boot still on halfway, and fixed his soulless eyes on the girl.

“I said, ‘get those pants off,’” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. She stared back at him, trying to convey more confidence than she felt.

“I said ‘no’.” Only the sound of the soup boiling over could be heard in the ramshackle house as the predator and prey surveyed one another. For obvious reasons Tavrel hadn’t been expecting the girl’s rebellion and, particularly in his drunken state, wasn’t sure how to handle it. The girl watched with falcon’s eyes, trying to determine which strike he would begin the inevitable barrage with. She had realized one thing during her scheming throughout the day; having been on the receiving end of so many clenched fists had given her the ability to not only anticipate and react to his drunken attack, but also to know which places were the most vulnerable to being struck.

“Girl…” he started, advancing on her. “Do you have any idea how much you’ll hurt after tonight?” Even as he began a routine he had done every night for the past thirteen years, Tavrel seemed unsure of himself. The girl nodded brazenly.

“I think I do actually.” This answer seemed to enrage Tavrel even more, making the girl smirk at the sight of his confidence ebbing. 

“Then you know what’s coming.” Cocking his fist, Tavrel swung at the girl, who dodged the blow by leaning back. In a split second, she wound up her own fist and landed a blow right on the bridge of his nose. She had never experienced anything so cathartic in her life as the sound of Tavrel’s nose crunching like a walnut, just as he had done to her so many times. Nothing, until she drove her right foot into his groin, making him scream like a wounded wolf.

“By the Gods!” he whimpered, crumpling to the floor, unsure whether to clutch his crotch or his nose. Taking one last piece of revenge, she kicked him in the ribs, making him grunt as his wind was taken from him. As her “guardian” writhed on the floor, the girl calmly grabbed her satchel of belongings and walked to the door.

“Don’t worry, Ilura’s good at setting broken noses,” she said vengefully. The older Dunmer woman stood, her mouth agape, at the kitchen doorway. Nodding a farewell to her, the girl opened the door. She turned, spit in Tavrel’s face, and bolted into the night; her prison at last behind her.

~~~

“I should have killed him,” she thought remorsefully as she kept her head down and raced at full speed through the night. Born under the sign of the Steed, she was able to outrun most anything that came upon her. 

Killing Tavrel had been part of her initial plan, but she couldn’t find an appropriate weapon with which to do the deed. The rusty dagger in her bag was really nothing more than a well worn kitchen knife, and she knew she would need it in the near future. 

What her mind kept dredging up was how easy it had been. For thirteen years, she had been afraid to say “boo,” even on days when he came in far drunker than he had this evening. She had sat, shaking and helpless, and let him do whatever he wanted to her. And this whole time, she could have simply moved out of the way and let him defeat himself. It was almost unsportsmanlike the way she had trounced him; he couldn’t see straight, much less have any sort of control over his motor skills. She didn’t feel guilty about it, but found it obscenely ironic.

The adrenaline rush that had sustained her all day was now dissipating as she found herself losing her speed in the middle of nowhere. She was hardly intimidated by this prospect; anything was better than spending another night under Tavrel’s reeking, doughy blue body, but that still left her with little choice but to find a tree to curl up under and fall asleep. Breathing heavily and stepping off the beaten road, she found a suitable arboreal shelter, a mid-sized pine tree which was missing branches near the base. Dropping her bag and crouching beside it, she reached her hand inside to make sure the knife was pointed away from her head. When she was satisfied that her life wouldn’t end because of her own carelessness, she laid her head on the bag, ready to enjoy her first night of freedom.  
“I’m in control now,” she reassured herself as she began to drift to sleep. “I’m in control.”

“Are you crying?” It was Tavrel’s voice, but he sounded enormous.

“Does it hurt?” She saw she was sitting in his rough calloused grey blue palm. She made a move to scream, but found she had no mouth, no hands or feet. In fact, all she had were black legs. She realized she was the butterfly she had crushed. With his other hand, he grabbed one of her wings.

“Will anyone help you?” he asked as he cruelly tore the wing from her back and tossed it into the river. She could only watch as her sole means of freedom was carried away by the current.

“You’re worthless!” he ripped the other wing off, leaving her little more than a worm with legs, helpless as he smiled his taunting smile.  
“Worthless!” he hissed, letting her fall into the river. Panicked, she couldn’t keep her head above the water with her spindly legs bending every which way in the relentless current. As she felt herself growing lightheaded, knowing she would drown, she heard him scream one last time.  
“WORTHLESS!”

“Hey!” The stentorian voice jerked her awake. Out of breath and coated with a thin layer of sweat, she struggled to fill her lungs with air, not even noticing the wiry Bosmer man with his shortsword to her throat. “Get up and put your hands behind you!” She lifted her eyes to look at him, somewhat relieved that it wasn’t Tavrel, having somehow tracked her down. Despite the blade pointed right at her, the girl couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of small man with the Brobdingnagian voice. “Something funny girl?” he boomed, clearly unamused, resting his blade directly against her neck. She stopped giggling, but couldn’t wipe the smile from her face, knowing she was tempting fate. “I said to get up!” The girl felt as though she was experiencing a strange déjà vous, remembering Tavrel’s words from earlier. The difference now was that her assailant was sober and in considerably better physical shape than Tavrel, and was coming after her with a weapon. 

With little choice, she stood, dusting herself off, her eyes never leaving the wood elf’s. “You have any weapons on you?” She shook her head, sizing the man up. He was only a few inches taller than she was, but had lean muscles, visible even under his black leather armor. He chuckled a little, looking as though he was analyzing her as well. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that she wasn’t much of a threat…when taken at face value; barely five feet, five inches in height, very little muscle mass and clearly only a teenager. Because of this, the man tossed his blade aside, suspecting he wouldn’t need it. The girl tried desperately to maintain eye contact with the man and not give any indication she had seen where the weapon had landed; behind her, to the left. 

The man advanced on her, grabbing the back of her neck and forcing her lips against his. Unable to draw breath through the tightness of their mouths, she almost panicked but managed to calm herself and breathe through her nose. He continued his violent kiss, her bruised lips throbbing, but she didn’t fight him; she knew she had to wait for the right moment. It came not long after, when he drove his tongue into her mouth. 

As quick as a snake, she clamped her teeth down on the worming intruder as heavily as she could. The man’s eyes widened as he screamed, the sound muffled by their lips. He began haphazardly pushing and beating against her as she kept biting down with all the force she could muster. Now frantic, he grabbed both shoulders and shoved her away from him. As he hit the ground, his mouth bleeding profusely, the girl spit the tip of his tongue back to him, a grotesque smile sludging across her face.

“Curth your thoul to Thithis!” he shrieked, clutching his mouth in agony, unable to speak properly without the end of his tongue. Without giving him a chance to reclaim his weapon, the girl snatched the glass shortsword, raised it over her head and brought it down on his throat. The first cut severed his vocal chords and an artery, making him convulse and gag, trying to speak but unable to make the words come. Unhinged with rage and newly-tapped power, she hacked, again and again, until the man stopped moving. 

Covered in blood and out of breath, she dropped the sword, leaning back on her knees, tucking a few sweat soaked tendrils of black hair behind her delicately pointed ear. Her thoughts disjointed and firing at random from one end of her brain to the other, she focused her energy on stripping the man of his black armor and the few possessions he had with him; the glass shortsword, two strong healing potions, one hundred and twenty eight septims, and a book entitled “The Five Tenets.” 

As she pulled the leather cuirass off of him, his weight almost too much for her to move, she noticed a black hand tattooed across his back. She recalled what the man had said, or tried to say, with his severed tongue, “Curse your soul to Sithis,” and book entitled “The Five Tenets,” a term she knew to be connected with the Dark Brotherhood. Now, the black hand on the man’s back stared back at her, removing any shadow of a doubt that she, a fifteen year old, nameless runaway, had just killed a member of the most ruthless guild of assassins in Tamriel. 

An almost erotic thrill spilling over her body, she crawled over to her bag and pulled out her tablet and pencil.

Sun’s Height 28, 398 3rd Era  
I am a prisoner no longer. I am no one’s plaything. I am not a soulless creature walking meaninglessly through the world. I know who I am now…I am a life taker. I am alive now…I’ve been dead until this day. I have a soul now…it’s the color of blood. I will be in control.”

She closed the book, the dark pencil words swirled with blood that had dripped from her mouth as she wrote, and retrieved the man’s armor. She pulled the greaves on first, right over her laced leather pants, knowing the armor would never fit without something underneath. As it was, they were loose on her, but with proper eating and exercise she could fill them out enough. The boots were in the right arena, as were the gauntlets. The cuirass was perhaps the most oddly fitting; far too big in length and girth, but the chest had a good fit. 

She could have the armor refitted when she accrued enough money, and until then, it was considerably more protective than the clothes she had. Sighing in content, she curled up under the tree, leaving the dead, naked Bosmer by the road.

* * *

That night had only been the beginning. The next few years were a crucible of robbery, murder and the thing she valued most, total hegemony. The girl, now a woman, had gained something of a reputation along the roads of Cyrodiil.  
Merciless  
arrogant  
cruel  
beautiful  
insane  
bloodthirsty.  
All were words used to describe her, and she took each one as a compliment. Travelers looked over their shoulders because of her, official convoys carried extra weapons because of her, and merchants hired bodyguards because of her. They all knew if they were unlucky enough to meet her, they would most likely never see the light of another day. She smiled as she thought of this and pinned her long ebony braid up on her head. It was going to be a good day.

The scuttlebutt from the inn she frequented, disguised as a working girl, was that there was going to be a lone mage traveling to the Imperial City with an artifact from Morrowind. 

“Yeah, I guess it’s some enchanted piece of jewelry or something,” a tipsy merchant had let slip one night. The woman had smiled, resting her cheek on her lapis lazuli hand as she listened.

“It can’t be that important,” she said, checking quickly to make sure she had a convincing amount of cleavage shown. She had found that the more she loosened her top, the more men loosened their tongues. The middle aged Redguard shook his head, taking another swig from the tankard. 

“No, it’s s’posed to be VERY important, like earth shaking important,” he said, motioning for the barkeep to refill his cup. She shook her head, feigning disbelief.

“If it’s so important, why wouldn’t he have an entire contingent of battlemages with him?” she asked, taking a swallow of her beer. The man clumsily flung his arm around her shoulders and leaned in, as though he was sharing trade secrets.

“It’s a shell game,” he murmured. “They sent out a mage, with a full array of bodyguards and a cheap costume amulet, and an hour later, they sent out the real amulet with another mage. A big convoy would attract too much attention.” She nodded, giving the merchant a sly smile.

“I see, clever magicians,” she said absently, swallowing the last of her bottle. The man chuckled, trying to be sly as his hand slid down the front of her shirt. Quick as a wink, she grabbed his wrist and twisted it back. “Looking’s free, touching’s going to cost you,” she snapped, maintaining her alias. The merchant pulled his arm from her grasp, looking at her angrily.

“I just gave you some solid information, you owe me something,” he snarled. She scoffed, raising her eyebrow.

“What am I going to do with information?” she asked. The man snickered drunkenly.

“Hey for all I know, you’re that murderess who wanders these roads. I could have just given you the lead of a lifetime.” A wave of nervous nausea pitched into her stomach, fearing her identity had been compromised.

“Right, that’s me,” she said sardonically. “Honestly, you just had your hand in the only place I could hide a weapon.” The man had laughed and dove back into his mug. She let out a sigh of relief in her mind. That had been too close. She couldn’t take the chance that he knew who she was. “Tell you what,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “I like you, how about one quick freebie, and after that, you pay full price?” The man looked only too eager to take her up on the offer.

“After this round, my room?” She shook her head.

“Manheim doesn’t like me to do business here,” she said, motioning to the Nord owner, who barely looked old enough to drink, let alone own a tavern.

“All I need is for the Legion patrols to walk in and label this place a whorehouse,” he agreed quietly, already a little uncomfortable at having this much transaction.

“Drink up, we’ll go to my place,” she had said, already a plan. “Bring your stuff; you…may not be back for it tonight.” She unbuttoned one more button on her shirt, just to set her plan in stone. She had never seen a man finish an entire pint so quickly.

~~~

“Fool,” she thought scornfully, glancing toward the river where she had thrown the lusty merchant’s headless corpse, head, and wares. She had been right though; he didn’t make it back to the inn.

Swallowing the last of her morning coffee, stolen from a convoy to the Imperial Palace, the woman tried to refocus her mind on the business of the day. She wasn’t used to going up against spellcasters, but that didn’t faze her; she had killed mages before and she was certain she would kill them again. They were always the quickest to surrender, even quicker than simple unarmed merchants, but they were usually the last to die. That was the beauty of her profession; almost none of her victims had to die, but nearly all of them did. It all happened the same way in her mind; she threatened them, they surrendered, an image of Tavrel would bore through her mind and she would become unhinged and mercilessly cut down the unarmed, unresisting target, a final bloody reiteration of her power over them. The mere thought made her smile.

Settling into an embankment by the side of the road, the woman straightened her black armor, now perfectly fitted to every curve of her body. She had killed several mercenaries and bandits who had been equipped with far higher quality armor than what she wore, but she chose to sell it rather than use it. She had found that if she wore the higher quality armor, it deprived her of one of her most valued assets; the appearance of vulnerability. 

She waited patiently for her quarry to arrive, napping on and off, crocheting, and drawing in her tablet, the same one she had run away with. The whole time she listened with seasoned ears to the sounds of the road. It was strikingly quiet with the exception of one legion patrol who didn’t realize she was there. 

“I could have slit his throat and he would never have known where I had come from,” she thought, smiling to herself. Just when she thought her drunken source might have been misinformed, the sound of unfamiliar hooves and a man singing rose on the wind. Waiting until the sound was just above her, she leapt up, her shortsword expertly positioned in the light to look the most intimidating.

“Hold it,” she said, stepping in front of the horse. The green robed mage looked like a Breton (though the woman was never very good at telling the different types of paleskins apart) with sandy blonde hair and a kind face, now contorted with shock. The horse was a beautiful black mare who, if the woman didn’t know better, looked irritated at having her ride interrupted. “Get off the horse,” she said, not wavering. The young man, still too shocked to move, remained in the saddle. “Get off!” she shouted, grabbing the man’s wrist. With a firm yank, she dragged him off the horse’s back, feeling the bones in the man’s forearm shatter in her grasp. Collapsing in pain, he fell on his mage’s staff, snapping it in two.

“Whatever you want it’s yours,” he said, cradling the fractured limb against his chest. She sneered at him, putting the tip of her weapon against his cheekbone. 

“I know,” she said with spite. “But I don’t like wasting time searching bodies, so just drop everything of value-” The woman was cut off by a rough grab on her shoulder, and being gruffly tossed aside. “What the hell?!” she forced out, scrambling to her feet. She was shocked to see the black horse now positioned between the woman and the mage, her eyes focused entirely on the woman. For the first time in a long time, the woman was at a loss. Never before in her experience had an animal come to its owner’s defense. Once or twice a dog had growled at her, but a swift kick to the head or genitals usually subdued the creature. Judging from the mare’s glare, a kick just wasn’t going to get the job done. Winding up a fist, she made a move to strike the animal, but found herself on the ground as the horse’s front right hoof landed squarely in her sternum. Undeterred, she jumped up, swinging at the horse with her shortsword, but landed hard on her coccyx as the horse again landed a blow, this time in the woman’s shoulder. 

Feeling as though she might finally be beaten, by an animal no less, the woman resorted to dishonorable means. Grabbing a handful of dirt, she tossed it in the horse’s brown eyes, which bulged with anger and determination. The animal whinnied in pain, shaking her head to try and get the particles out. Seizing the unfair advantage, the woman rolled under the horse and in one cruel sweep, slashed the magnificent creature’s throat. 

“No!” the mage screamed as the mare drew a guttural gasp. The man’s cry frightened the woman; it wasn’t something she was used to hearing. It was the cry of a man who had lost a child, or friend or dearest love. The beautiful horse’s eyes were wide as she fell to her knees, with almost dancer-like grace as she collapsed to her side. “Penny! Penny, no!” the mage cried again, cradling the horse’s head in his arms, stroking the side of her face comfortingly. He made a move to cast a healing spell on the animal, but it was already too late: the gods had taken the valiant animal with merciful brevity. The mage looked up at the woman. Until that moment she had been unaware of the fact that she had been staring, her mouth open, aghast for the first time at what she had done. 

“It was just a horse…” she thought, trying to justify her deed and to undermine his grief at the same time.

Almost before she could react, the mage charged toward her, in his hands a gleaming daedric dagger. She turned to run but she didn’t take more than two steps before feeling a burning, slashing pain across her back. Almost immediately, she couldn’t move, not from the wound per se, but because of the enchantment behind it. She had been struck by a paralyzing arrow from one of her other robberies, but fortunately for her, it had only made her left arm numb for a few hours. Now, that same numbness flooded through her entire body, leaving her unable to even blink as she laid facedown on the grass. 

“How did he recover so fast?” she asked herself, noting that the hand she had seen the weapon in was the same one she had broken only moments ago. The empty potion bottles around her seemed to give her the answer. With raging, maddened eyes, the mage flipped her on her back and gripped her face in his hands.

“Child, you’ve no idea what evil you’ve just committed have you?” he hissed, his voice barely stronger than a whisper, though the grip on her head was harder than she ever expected. “An animal who loves her master to the point where she’s willing to lay down her own life is the purest soul in the entire world. And you’ve just destroyed that soul.” The woman hoped he would kill her soon. The man’s pontifications were stirring feelings she didn’t know she had. 

“Guilt? Is this what guilt feels like?” she wondered as she stared involuntarily into the man’s eyes. 

Death, she would come to find, was not what the young wizard had in mind. 

“Therefore, since you cannot understand what that kind of faith and devotion is, that is all you will be!” Suddenly, her body seemed to explode in the most unspeakable agony she could ever imagine. No amount or ferocity of Tavrel’s abuses could have prepared her for the suffering now literally ripping her apart. Every bone, muscle and organ in her body began to crack, contract and shift inside her, each resetting itself in a new position. The urge to scream had never been stronger than it was right now, but the enchantment kept her wailings trapped in her throat, the only sound she could make was the gory rhapsody of her body tearing itself to pieces beneath her skin.  
Finally, whether due to mercy from the gods, the daedric lords, or her body going into shock from the pain, she fell headlong into blessed unconsciousness.

Her hearing was the first of her senses to return to her. The distinct sound of a shovel scraping against dirt could be heard not far from her head. 

“Am I dead?” she thought, having yet to open her eyes. “Am I being buried?” she dreaded, her thoughts turning to panic. Her eyes popped open, much to her relief, and saw the mage piling dirt onto an earthen mound by the side of the road.

“Her name was Penumbra,” he said, his voice empty as he stared at the mound. “I called her Penny for short.” How he had known she was back among the living was a mystery to her. Staggering to her feet, she noticed something was different, but couldn’t put her finger on just what it was. “Do you know what a penumbra is?” The woman shook her head, but it too didn’t feel quite right. “It’s the place between light and shadow.” He looked mournfully at the piled dirt that housed his friend. “She was a black horse, but her spirit was bright, therefore she was a penumbra; the meeting of light and dark.” The mage stared at the mound for another moment, almost unable to tear himself away. “I suppose we should to be on our way, shouldn’t we?” he said reluctantly. The woman raised her eyebrow skeptically.

“What do you mean ‘we’?” That’s what she would have said, had she been capable of intelligent speech. But when she tried to articulate her concerns, all she heard was a series of low whinnies and neighing. Trying to clear her throat she coughed, but that too sounded only like a noise made by a horse. Feeling frantic, she tried to cover her head, hoping she would wake to find it was just a dream, but found she had no hands; only hooves. “What did you do to me?!” she screamed, only the sound of a spooked horse filling her ears.

“Calm yourself little one,” the mage said soothingly, taking hold of the bridle the woman now found on her nose and mouth and attempting to calm her by stroking between her eyes. She would not be consoled however, and thrashed her head wildly, trying to bite him. “This will not be forever, only as long as it has to be,” he continued, holding on to the thin leather straps, focusing on not being thrown about. “And you haven’t lost your humanity entirely,” he added, pulling her with all his strength toward the edge of a lake. Confronted with her own reflection, she was horror-stricken to see that her fears were confirmed; her once comely face was now elongated and contorted into a horse’s face, long and covered with sleek black hair. Rolling her black lips back from her teeth, she saw they were large and slightly yellowed, and while her hair was still long and black, it had been transformed into a mane. 

Enraged by all the equine changes, she caught sight of the side of her face, and saw what the mage had meant when he said she wasn’t completely a horse. Her eyes had maintained their sanguine glow; the last vestige of her now lost humanity. Shrieking in rage, she thrashed again, desperate to free herself from the mage’s firm grasp.

“You son of a bitch!” she cried, her curse reduced to sputtering, snorting noise. Angrily, she again tried again to thrash her head free from her captor, snapping her teeth in a vain attempt to bite him.

“I understand your anger little one,” the man said, evading her teeth for the second time. “But all actions have consequences. You may even thank me for this someday,” he said.

“Big ol’ fat chance,” she huffed, momentarily consoled at the discovery that she could blow some spittle at him when she “huffed”. 

“Now, thanks to your interference, we’re going to be quite late getting to the Arcane University. We must be on our way. Are these your things over here?” She stared at the mage incredulously as he grabbed her old worn pack, sword and bedroll. Was he implying that she would actually be ridden?! By him, no less?! Quickly, he had her possessions, along with the broken pieces of his staff, packed in the saddlebags she discovered she was equipped with. As he struggled to mount her, she bucked wildly, tossing him to the ground. Undeterred, he stood, brushed himself off and climbed on again. Once more, he was thrown off. He stood again and put his hands on his hips. 

“We can do this as long as you like, but sooner or later, one of us is going to be too tired to continue. I have endurance potions, and you’re the one doing most of the fighting, so who do you think is going to back down first?” he asked, without a trace of anger or frustration in his voice. The woman didn’t care that the odds were against her, she was going to fight to the bitter end.

And so they fought. For nearly three hours, the woman threw him over and over again, and each time, the mage patiently dusted himself off and tried again. But after two endurance fortifying potions, and countless bruises he took hold of the reins. The mage led her to the lake near the road, and thinking she’d won, smugly drank from the lake, though she barely had the strength to stand. 

“We simply don’t have time to do this all evening,” he said simply, his voice giving away just how tired he was. With that, he dragged her into the lake up to her chest, sending her mind reeling with fear, but she simply lacked the strength to resist. Once she was mostly submerged, he climbed on her back and urged her toward the deeper water.

“Is this man crazy!?” she pondered, trying to throw him, but finding herself hampered by the water and her own physical exhaustion. Instead of bucking, she stood still, refusing to move, ignoring his various urging motions. Sighing heavily, the beaten man slid off of her back. 

A solid hour of swimming later, both the mage and the woman, now horse, crawled up the shore of the lake on the island that surrounded the Arcane University. Panting heavily, she gasped for breath like she never had before, her legs shaking with fatigue. 

“Come on girl,” the mage said, easily as tired as she was, giving the reins a halfhearted yank. “Once we drop this off, we’ll get you stabled for the night.” The horse was just too tired to care anymore. Without the will to resist, she followed him up the embankment and clumsily jumped the small ledge to the gate of the university. Putting his shoulder to the reinforced oak portal, the mage led her through the gateway and down the stone stairs.

“Hannibal, there you are!” a blue robed young man said with relief as he approached the mage. Both man and horse looked something like drowned rats that had been dragged behind a wild boar for a mile or so. “We were beginning to worry,” he said as he shook the mage by the hand. “From the looks of it we were right to be concerned.” Hannibal, evidently the name of the mage holding the horse’s reins, waved off his concern.

“No need, Ontus,” he said, wringing out his sleeves. “But suffice to say we’re exhausted, so if you could just take this and pay me, we’ll be on our way.” The young man nodded, his eyes lighting up.

“So you have the amulet?” he asked, his tone now hushed. Wordlessly, Hannibal pulled a chain out from under his robe, revealing a bauble the color of the coldest night. Pulling it over his head, he extended it to the other man, Ontus, who accepted it with great care. “The necromancer’s amulet,” he said softly, hardly daring to believe he was holding the piece. To the shivering horse, it looked like any other shiny object, no true intrinsic value, but it clearly held special meaning for the two men. “Thank you Hannibal and here’s your payment,” Ontus said, tucking the amulet into the folds of his robe and handing a small bag, presumably gold, to the drenched Hannibal. “Will you be staying here tonight?” Surprisingly, Hannibal shook his head.

“No, I think I ought to stay with my horse tonight,” he said, looking back to the irritated horse. “She’s a little skittish,” he added quickly as Ontus reached to pat her nose. The horse blew a puff of air past her teeth, glaring at Hannibal.

“Yes, I can see that,” Ontus said, quickly pulling his hand back, taking a step to the side. The mare sneered in her mind. Even as a horse, she could scare the hell out of people.

“But would you kindly give this to Delmar, over at the Chironasium,” Hannibal asked, retrieving the broken pieces of his staff from the saddlebag and handing them to Ontus.  
“See if there’s anything he can do to repair it.” Ontus lifted his wide eyes from the staff to the horse. 

“Why do I think you had something to do with this?” he asked. She chose to ignore him, looking away. “I’ll give those to him before I turn in. If he can repair it, it probably won’t be ready for a few weeks.” Hannibal nodded his agreement, but Ontus was still focused on the horse. “But tell me, Hannibal, where did that mare get those red eyes? I’ve never seen another animal with eyes like them.” Hannibal smiled.

“From her mother I suspect,” he said vaguely. Ontus lifted an eyebrow curiously.

“You didn’t get her from a breeder?”

“No, found her by the side of the road, or rather, she found me.” The horse snorted at the man’s words. “Well, it’s been a pleasure Ontus, but I suppose we should be on our way.” Ontus and Hannibal shook hands again. 

“Very well, be well Hannibal, and be well…what’s her name?” 

“Probably something creative…like Blackie…” she thought spitefully. Hannibal looked at her, then shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. Waving a last goodbye, he turned and walked away, all but dragging the horse behind him. Conscious only from utter stubbornness, she stumbled on after him as he led her through the Arboretum, Temple district and Talos Plaza to the Orc-owned stables just outside the Imperial City.

“You selling or boarding?” the beefy Orc woman asked, walking out of her house. An odd aroma was emanating from the small cabin and the horse was immediately concerned for her safety and looked to Hannibal with terror in her eyes.

“Boarding, but is it possible for me to stay with her?” The Breton’s request was simple, but the Orc seemed to take it personally.

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard about my stables,” she said jabbing a finger in front of Hannibal’s face. “But let me tell you, your horse will be just fine by herself here!” she barked, intensely defensive.

“I’ve heard only good things about your stable ma’am,” Hannibal said, trying to maintain a calm, inoffensive demeanor. “It’s just that this is a new horse and I’d like for her to be with me as often as possible. Not to mention, if I do board her here I won’t have the money for a room at the inn.” The Orc seemed to relax a little, and shrugged.

“I guess, it makes less work for my people to do,” she said, accepting the gold from Hannibal. “Enjoy your stay.” As soon as she disappeared into her house, Hannibal leaned over to the horse’s ear.

“It’s rumored she eats the horses here,” he murmured. The horse shuddered, suddenly knowing what the strange smell was. Perhaps it was to her benefit that she was simply too tired and cold to be overly frightened. Wearily, Hannibal led her over to one of the feed troughs. The dull, mustard colored hay hardly looked edible, let alone appealing, and she flatly turned her nose up at it while Hannibal uncinched her saddle and removed the saddlebags from her back. Despite his own exhaustion, Hannibal took one of the brushes from a bucket on a shelf and tried to brush her down. But despite her aching body and itchy skin, she snorted, wrenching away from his gentle hands. Sighing, the mage tossed the brush back into the bucket and found a spare blanket. Tossing it over the horse’s back, she just as quickly grabbed it with her teeth and threw it off. Shaking his head, Hannibal picked it up and tried to put it on her, only to have the same result.

“Girl, you’re soaked, and you’re exhausted, you need to eat and keep warm, otherwise you’re going to get sick,” he said, leaning against a bale of hay and crossing his arms. Truly, she didn’t care. Sick, healthy, happy, sad, she would still be a gods-forsaken horse. She turned her face from the man, hating him almost as much as she hated Tavrel. Sniffing the water in the trough, she dismissed that as well and decided to continue brooding in the darkness. The small flash of a spell being cast caught her attention and she glanced over to see Hannibal filing through the saddlebags and found what he sought. She reeled at the sight of the Breton thumbing through her writing tablet. 

“Put that back!” she tried to scream, succeeding in getting his attention. He looked up at her and held it up.

“This is the only clue as to who you are,” he said gently. “How do I know what to call you?” She huffed, stomping her foot.

“Don’t call me anything, I don’t have a name, put the book down or I’ll take a dump on you while you sleep.” All these thoughts flew through her head, and added to the crushing frustration of not being able to vocalize them. Almost completely ignoring her, he read one page before sighing and putting the book down.

“If you really don’t want me to know, then I suppose I should respect that,” he said, dispelling the light spell he’d cast and putting the tablet back into the saddlebag. “I apologize.” Shock wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what the mare now felt. In her entire life, no one had ever apologized to her directly for their actions. Ilura had always made apologies for Tavrel’s behavior, but Tavrel never once apologized. Not sure how to react, she turned away from Hannibal once again. 

“You have a lot of anger in you,” he said. “I’m aware that I’m merely stating the obvious, but I wanted to let you know that I don’t think you’re wicked by nature. I think you have a right to be angry.” 

“You mean I have a right to be angry about being transformed into a horse and being made to work as one?” she thought bitterly. “Damn decent of you, s’wit.” She didn’t want to think about the meaning behind his words, or that phrase “I don’t think you’re wicked…” It was easier to be angry; she was used to being angry. Closing her eyes, she felt herself falling asleep, letting her ire steep in her trembling, hungry body.

~~~

The newest light of day had just broken when the mare opened her eyes. She was surprised that Hannibal was cinching the saddle onto her back and loading the saddlebags.

“Good morning girl,” he said cheerfully. She rolled her eyes.

“Of course, he’s a morning person,” she thought sourly. 

“Delmar can’t repair my staff for another month, so we might as well head to Anvil,” Hannibal said, making sure the saddlebags were tied on properly. “We’ll take a little while so you can have some breakfast,” he said, bringing a bucket over to her. “And since you’re not exactly used to hay and oats, I took the liberty of getting you some carrots and apples. I can’t have you walking all the way across Cyrodiil with an empty stomach.” Looking into the bucket, she saw that Hannibal had indeed brought her some of the finest fruits and veggies she had ever seen. Even though her stomach rumbled ravenously, the mare was torn between her hunger and her animosity toward the mage.  
Glaring at him, she resigned to eating a few, feeling weak at being so easily swayed. Crunching an apple carefully, the flavor flooded her mouth, as if she had never eaten an apple before. Her mouth almost divorcing the rest of her body, she rooted hungrily through the bucket for more apples, horking them down as she found them.

“I’m still pissed at you, magic boy,” she thought, staring directly at Hannibal, who watched her with an amused smile. She hoped that somehow he might be able to read her mind.

“You’re welcome,” he said, taking the remaining carrots from the bucket and stowing them away in the saddlebag. She simply rolled her eyes and swallowed the last of the apples in her mouth. Feeling a sudden tug at her side, she was astounded to see Hannibal trying to mount her.

“You don’t learn too quick do you?” she thought, bucking him without a second thought. Just to prove her point, she grabbed the saddlebag with her teeth and threw it off her back. Getting himself to his feet, Hannibal for the first time looked cross.

“Here’s how this is going to work girl,” he said, picking up the discarded luggage. “I understand if you don’t want me to ride you yet, but if you don’t carry the saddlebags, I’m going to read a page of your tablet.” The mare wanted nothing more than the power to kill with her mind. Grudgingly, she allowed the mage to resettle the saddlebags on her back, realizing the mage had found the chink in her armor. The man said nothing as he finished and grabbed her reins. “Thank you my friend,” he said, smiling with approval. The mare blew her lips at him, an action she felt could roughly be translated as “kiss my ass”. With that, the two began the long walk to Anvil, having found an uneasy truce. 

The hour was late when Hannibal and the mare finally arrived at the Horse Whisperer stables in Anvil. Unlatching the gate, Hannibal walked her into the corral and released her reins. Stretching her neck while the mage knocked on the door to the small house, she walked out to the corral, looking for something to eat that didn’t look like it had been walked on or thrown up. Alas, no such luck. 

“Hannibal, everything alright?” The voice from inside was that of a tired sounding Redguard woman. Hannibal nodded, apologies in his eyes.

“Well, yes and no,” he said. “And I do apologize for waking you.” The attractive woman waved off his apology. 

“I was up anyway,” she said forgivingly. “What’s the trouble? Penny sick?” Hannibal shook his head.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” he said, sorrow trimming the edge of his voice. “Penny was killed on our trip.” The woman gasped, a hand going to her chest in shock. 

“Oh Hannibal, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, putting a hand to his face in comfort.

“Thank you Nihilsa.” The mare had been watching their discourse with some interest, but was getting bored. A motion in back of her drew her gaze to a white horse prodding her hip with his nose.

“What the hell are you looking at?” she snorted, making her annoyance clear. The horse looked back at her with curiosity. For some reason, she was reminded of what she had told the lusty Redguard merchant. “Looking’s free, touching’s going to cost you.”

“I wanted to introduce you to my new companion,” Hannibal said to the woman, leading the stable owner to the mare. “I don’t know her name yet, but she’s very…difficult. Is there someone who could care for her on your behalf?” It was then that the mare noticed that the woman was heavily pregnant. 

“No wonder Hannibal wanted someone else,” she said to herself. 

“My nephew is helping me out for some time,” she answered, jerking her head in the direction of the stable, where a teen-aged boy was sleeping on a pallet. “Ernest!” she called. The boy sat up, looking over tiredly at his aunt. “Come see the new horse.” Obediently, he jumped up and hurried over. “Do you think you could manage to take care of this lovely lady?” The boy nodded eagerly.

“She looks strong,” he commented. “Is she fast?” Hannibal shrugged.

“I don’t know, I haven’t had a chance to ride her yet,” he said. “And I would ask that you not ride her either; she’s not very trusting and she doesn’t like people very much.” The boy nodded.

“Wow, look at her eyes,” he exclaimed, leaning to the side to get a closer look at the mare’s face. “That’s awesome!” The mare felt that the boy had earned a blow from her lips. The woman couldn’t help laughing as her nephew wiped the horse’s spittle from his face. The mare smirked in satisfaction, while Hannibal shook his head.

“As I said, she’s not terribly friendly now, but just care for her as best you can and I’ll be in once a day to exercise her,” he said, giving her a disappointed look as he removed the saddlebag and threw it over his shoulder. “And girl, before you decide to give Nihilsa and Ernest a hard time, bear in mind I’ll have that tablet with me.” Rearing in resentment, the mare let out a spiteful whinny. “Just something to think about,” he said, leading her to a stall and putting her carrots from earlier into the trough. “They’ll take good care of you girl, but you still need to be respectful to them.” He tried to pat her kindly on the nose, but she snapped at him, making sure he still knew how much she disliked him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he walked away, his attempt at contact having failed. 

Glad that his footsteps were growing fainter, the mare looked to the side to see the boy, Ernest, approaching her with brushes, clearly under the impression she would let him brush her. Gingerly, he removed her saddle, which she was only too glad to be rid of. 

“So far so good, right?” he asked in relief, laying the saddle on the side of the stall. She made no noise, but never took her glowing eyes off of him. “Do you need to stare at me like that, it’s freaking me out,” he said, disconcerted as it became impossible to avoid her gaze. 

“Is it now?” She was delighted at the boy’s discomfort and made a mental note that her staring made him nervous. Though chilly, when she saw Ernest making a move to put a blanket over her back, she snorted. A simple baring of her teeth made the boy pale with apprehension. 

“You need a blanket girl, you’re gonna be cold,” he said, gripping the rough wool cover with undue strength.

“Put that thing on my back and I’ll strangle you with it,” she nickered aggressively. Shaking his head, the dark-skinned boy threw the blanket over the side of the stall and walked back to his bedroll. 

“You want to be cold, fine, suit yourself,” he said defeated. He laid down, curling up under his blanket. The mare was a little disappointed. Where was the sport in fighting with someone who was so easily intimidated?

“What am I saying?” she thought, biting on the carrot Hannibal had left for her. She shook her head, feeling her ears flick involuntarily. It was relaxing to not have to work at intimidating people, she should be relishing it. While it was less than comforting, she merely filed it away in mind as something to keep track of. Looking back in the trough, she was displeased that there were no more. She was still desperately hungry, but she again turned her nose up at the rough looking oats and dry hay. Closing her eyes, she remembered a time when going to bed hungry was constant, disappointed that the days weren’t totally behind her. 

“Morning Miss Sunshine!” Hannibal’s voice grated on her ears as the mare woke groggily the next morning. She huffed at him, closing her eyes and trying to go back to sleep. “Sorry girl, I’ve got a busy day at the guild, if I don’t exercise you now, I won’t be able to exercise you at all.” She weighed the choices of early exercise versus no exercise.

“I hate you so much,” she would have muttered, as she grudgingly backed out of the stall and followed the mage out of the corral. Hannibal took the reins and led her to the road. 

“You walked a long way yesterday, so let’s just walk to Kvatch and back, what do you say girl?” Hannibal asked, handing her an apple. Devouring the fruit with relish, she felt the hunger in her belly dissipate a little as she started walking. Though they had a few minutes of silence, Hannibal made sure it didn’t last long. “Ernest tells me that you didn’t let him put a blanket on you last night, even though you were shivering,” he said, looking back at her when he spoke. 

“The little fink,” she thought maliciously.

“Girl, you’re only hurting yourself when you do things like that,” Hannibal said. “It’s inconvenient and a little frustrating for the rest of us. As is not eating. As angry as you are, the fact is that you are a horse now, and you have to start eating like one.” The horse stopped dead in her tracks. 

“…you are a horse now…”  
“…you are a horse…”

The spark of anger inside her had been fed and fanned, sending her into a full buck, wrenching the reins out of Hannibal’s hands and sending him stumbling to the side. 

“You boar-pounding son of a bitch!” she tried to scream, bringing her front hooves down angrily. Rolling out of the way of her pounding feet, Hannibal scrambled to his own. Her stomach twisting in fury and frustration, trapped in a body where she had no voice and no control, she reared again, trying to strike the blonde mage with the hooves he had forced on her.

“Hannibal!”

“Look out!” Nihilsa and Ernest shouted, moving as though they intended to help. Quickly holding up a hand, he gestured wildly to both of them.

“Stay back!” he hollered, his eyes frantic. “She’s ready to fight!” 

“Damn right!” she spat, only animal sounds passing her lips. Though hungry and exhausted, her wrath outweighed both physical ailments. Kicking and charging at Hannibal, he artfully dodged her attacks, ready to wait her onslaught out. All the anger, all the fear, all the torment she had ever felt, was flying from every pore on her body. Throwing her body around madly, she couldn’t help but seethe. Why was it always someone else who decided the way her life should be? 

Why didn’t she have her own choices in her life? She bucked, stomping all four of her feet. Why were people always out to hurt her or make her miserable? She thrashed her head, her long black mane tangling in her eyes. 

If the gods were merciful, if there were gods at all, why did they allow this to happen? The sun gleaming off of a city guard’s cuirass turned her attention to two well-armored Imperials approaching her.

“You alright mage?” one man asked, never taking his eyes off of the horse. She noticed the other guard was an archer, his steel bow in his hands, rather than on his back. 

“This doesn’t bode well for me,” she realized, feeling anxiety settling in her chest.

“I’m fine,” Hannibal said, wary of their presence. “Put the bow away, don’t even think of nocking an arrow,” he said firmly. Surprised at Hannibal’s defense of her, she turned and stared at him.

“Gotcha!” She wasn’t sure which happened first, the guard’s voice, or his hands gripping the reins firmly. She whinnied in surprise, but found herself so out of breath from her battle she couldn’t make another sound. Hurrying to take the reins, Hannibal gave a semi-grateful smile to the guards.

“Thank you gentlemen,” he said, holding the reins firmly, but a little more gently than the guard had. She suspected he was aware that the fight had taken all her strength.

“Just part of the job,” the Imperial man said, his voice cultured and intelligent. “A word of advice, get rid of that worthless beast, she’s going to be more trouble than she’s worth. Another few seconds of that behavior and we would’ve had to shoot her.” Hannibal shook his head, and the mare knew it was because he knew it was the truth.

“I suspect it was a long time in the making, that behavior,” he said gently. “If you’ll excuse me, she needs to be washed down, but I assure you, that won’t happen again.” The guard shook his head. 

“I certainly hope not.” Giving one last look at the panting horse, the guard walked away, motioning for his comrade to accompany him. Hannibal looked to the mare, who felt sick from emotion and her violent episode.

“I think that’s enough exercise for one day,” he said briskly. She could almost see the man boiling with ire. He shoved her vehemently into the corral, shutting the gate firmly behind her. “Maybe he’s right,” he muttered to her, glowering as he looked directly into her eyes. “Maybe you’re just not worth the trouble.” With that, he turned his back on her sharply and walked over to Nihilsa and Ernest, who both looked shaken.

“Hannibal,” was all Nihilsa could say, lowering her hand from her mouth and letting Ernest out from behind her.

“That mare is crazy,” Ernest said, shaking his head. 

“Are you both alright?” Hannibal asked monotonically, as though trying to conceal his own distress. Both aunt and nephew nodded. “Give her a few minutes to calm down,” he said, handing Ernest a few extra gold coins. “Then try to wash her down. If she resists, just let her do what she wants.” The mare looked helplessly at Hannibal as he walked back to the gates, ignoring her for the first time. 

She didn’t know what to feel. She made Hannibal turn on her. As much as she hated him, as much spite as she felt for him, as much of a grudge as she held for him, he had never had that defeated look when he had spoken to her. 

She saw Ernest creeping up to her with a full bucket of water, looking as though he’d rather be chewing a handful of tacks. Quickly, he hurled the water over her, making her gasp in surprise. The terrified boy dropped the bucket, turned tail and vaulted the fence. Dripping wet, the mare miserably walked over to the stalls, feeling more dismal than she’d felt in a long time. Her head was pounding and her joints hurt and, the final indignation, there was mucus leaking from her nostrils.

“Great, I’m a horse with hay fever,” she recognized glumly, resting her head on the trough. “The story of my life.”

The mare didn’t move for the rest of the day; overwhelmed by both physical and emotional misery, she just couldn’t find the will to move. As the hours passed, and day turned to night, she felt her problems growing worse; her ears had started hurting and almost every time she drew a breath, she started coughing. Her stomach was upset, the dribbles from her nose had become a near torrent, and she couldn’t stop shivering. 

“Why did he have to be right?” she thought, thinking about how Hannibal had said she would get sick if she kept refusing food and warmth. She looked over at Ernest, who had barricaded his corner of the stable to keep her out. He was already asleep. She wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t tried to put a blanket on her, but tonight, she might have accepted, albeit rancorously. 

Desperate to get warm, she clumsily lowered herself to her knees, curling up on the straw on the ground, still shivering. Lifting her head at the sound, she heard the front door to the house opening. The soft thudding of Nihilsa’s feet was accompanied by the sound of her breathing heavily.

“Ernest,” she murmured urgently. “Ernest wake up.”

“She’s probably going to start shooting babies out of her,” the mare decided.

“Hmph? You alright?” the boy’s voice indicated he had clearly wasn’t totally awake.

“I need you to go to the chapel and get Laralthir. I think the baby might be coming,” she said, her voice laced with strained serenity. Following with her eyes, the mare watched the boy run at full speed past her stall, a torch in his hand and blazing intent on his face. She listened as Nihilsa wearily made her way back into the house, the door closing and taking all the light with her. 

Coughing deeply, the mare settled her head down, feeling suddenly dizzy. She just wanted to sleep, but she wasn’t sure if she was actually sleeping when she dreamed. The sounds of the night seemed oddly distorted, crickets sounding like drums and the stars seeming to talk to her in babbled tongues. She wasn’t sure if it was hours or minutes later when Ernest came charging back, the tired Bosmer healer not far behind him. The mare couldn’t be certain, but she thought the wood elf saw her laying there before she darted into the house. She closed her eyes, slipping back into semi-consciousness, the world growing more distorted around her. 

All sense of time disappeared, and sounds ran together. Nihilsa’s groans from the house were blended into the sounds of the horses around the mare. On the rare occasion she opened her eyes, the dark night seemed to be trying to swallow her and spit her out at the same time and posts of the stall had faces that kept winking at her. Throughout the whole ordeal, she was shivering violently, unable to get warm or cool.

“Am I dying?” she wondered, coughing again. “I’ve never done that before…it might be interesting…” Her thoughts were for once, free of emotion, unable to focus on any one for long enough to form an opinion about it. The night seemed to split open as the sound of a baby crying pierced the air. “Hmm…maybe I’m going to be reincarnated…” she pondered. 

An hour, perhaps a day, perhaps a minute later, an unfamiliar face poked into the mare’s stall, inspecting her with concerned green eyes.

“You’re a sick girl aren’t you?” the voice that presumably matched the face was garbled and strange in the mare’s aching ears. After a moment of staring, the face disappeared back into the night. 

“Is she up?” Nihilsa’s voice sounded strangely close. 

“No, and she looks bad.” The new voice was troubled and kindly. It sounded like the color brown to the mare; a rich, warm brown, not unlike Nihilsa’s skin.

“Ernest, run and get Hannibal.” Nihilsa’s voice was closer. As Ernest ran by, appearing as only a blur to the mare, two sets of footsteps echoed closer to her.

“Don’t get that baby too close to the mare,” the new voice said. “A sick horse is one thing, a sick newborn is another.” 

“I know; I just need to look at the horse.” Though it looked as though there were two, only one Nihilsa peeked around the corner of the stall, a tiny bundle in her arms. “Oh girl,” she said, her voice reverberating through the mare’s head. “What did you do to yourself?” 

“I blame Hannibal,” the mare thought, a fair sight away from lucid thought. “If he hadn’t turned me into a horse, I wouldn’t have gotten this mystery horse sickness…” Her head pounding and dizziness jumping on her back, she buried her face in the hay.

“What do you think?” the wood elf who appeared next to the Redguard, asked, looking toward Nihilsa.

“Without being able to take her temperature, or examine her closer, I can only guess,” Nihilsa said, rocking the bundle she held. “But I’d say she’s got horse flu.” Silence fell over the stable, with the exception of Nihilsa’s baby cooing now and then.

“I’d have to assume that’s not good,” the mare thought, giving a hacking cough and shivering harder.

“Nihilsa!” Her ears perked up at the sound of Hannibal’s voice. “What’s-? Did you just have the baby?”

“No, I had her about four hours ago,” Nihilsa said, reassuring the distressed mage. “Her name’s Clesa, but that’s not why I called you out here.” She nodded toward the mare, turning Hannibal’s gaze.

“By the Nine,” Hannibal said, gingerly kneeling beside her. “Oh girl, what did I do?” His face was ashen and pulled into a mask of concern. Rubbing her neck comfortingly, clearly disturbed by the fact that she allowed him to do so, he turned to Nihilsa. “Do you know what this is?” 

“My best guess is flu,” she said, shaking her head. Looking to the wood elf, Hannibal sought some answer.

“Laralthir, tell me, is there a cure?” 

“The only Cure Disease spells and potions I know are for people. The anatomy of a horse is just too different for the spells to work,” the green-eyed healer said honestly. Hannibal looked desperate as he looked back at the mare.

“Our healing spells work on them, why not disease cures?” he said, angrily. The pain in her head surging, the mare buried her face in Hannibal’s lap, the straw making her face itch.

“Anyone can patch a hole in a skirt,” Laralthir said kneeling beside her. “But it takes a tailor to make the skirt into pants.” 

“Who needs a tailor?” the mare wondered. Hannibal sighed.

“So what can we do?” His question was simple, but neither the healer, nor the horsewoman seemed to know what to say at first. 

“Well, first things first, she’s been down for most of the night,” Nihilsa said with resolve. “We need to get her on her feet or else we’re fighting a losing battle.” The horse looked from Hannibal to Laralthir, 

“Alright,” Hannibal said, looking back at her. “Let’s go girl.” 

“There is absolutely nothing that will make me stand,” the mare thought with tenacity. Not being able to listen to the horse’s mind, Hannibal and small Laralthir urged her to her feet, pushing and pulling her this way and that. Somehow, to no one’s greater surprise than the mare’s, they got her upright. 

“Walk her around, for awhile, she needs to move for awhile,” Nihilsa said, moving out of their way. “Not too fast, she’s not feeling well.” Hannibal nodded, leading her gently by the bridle. The mare’s dizziness was compounded by the fact that Hannibal was leading her around in a circle, or she thought he was. “If there’s no simple cure for flu,” Nihilsa said, leaning against the stable and patting the baby’s back. “Then there’s really nothing to do but let the disease run its course and just make her comfortable along the way.” 

This was not welcome news for the mare.

“How about we get that guard with the bow back and cure all my ills?” she suggested in her mind, only partly in jest. Fortunately for her, Hannibal’s thoughts didn’t delve into such dark corners.

“How do we make her comfortable?” he asked, intent on helping the creature beside him. 

“The same way you’d make a person with the flu comfortable; give her lots of fluid, round the clock attention and try to reduce her fever,” Laralthir chimed in. 

“How do you know she has a fever?” Hannibal asked, somewhat in disbelief. 

“If she’s got all the symptoms of flu, chances are she’s got a fever,” the wood elf added, pointing to the mare’s eyes. “Plus look at her eyes, they’re all glassy.” Hannibal stopped for a moment and took a closer look at the mare’s now listless crimson eyes. Sighing heavily, he "tsked" his tongue and gently tugged her bridle to urge her on again.

“That’s all good, but most importantly, keep her moving, if she lies down, she’ll probably get colic, which is something she definitely doesn’t need,” Nihilsa added. Hannibal looked at the mare, who stared back at him.

“Just because you didn’t hate me enough…” he said sardonically. Letting out a sigh, followed by a cough, the mare followed him around the corral, knowing it was shaping up to be a pretty lousy week.

The following few days were a haze for the mare. If she wasn’t walking around the corral, she was trying to lie down in her stall. If she wasn’t trying to lie down in her stall, she was being washed down and brushed in an attempt to bring her fever down. The brushing felt nice against her sore muscles, but the cold water running over her fevered body only made the chills worse. All the faces of those around her became blurred together and the voices melded into the most bizarre dissonant noise she had ever heard. At times, she was sure she saw and heard Tavrel laughing at her, and Ilura trying to soothe her with her expert hands.

Time remained a liquid, amorphous construct. For her, there were no days, no hours, there was only the present; a million different presents for every second of actual time. The mare couldn’t remember a time when her body hadn’t felt hot, cold, sore and sick. At times she forgot she had ever been a person, ever had hands, a voice. All she ever knew was whatever present she felt at that instant.

Finally, somehow, a crack appeared in her delirium. Using all the strength she could muster, she pushed through it, working toward the light that appeared from the other side. As the light grew brighter and brighter, shadows dancing with her every movement, she squeezed her eyes shut, keeping the light out. Feeling something change around her, she cautiously blinked one eye open.

All she saw was the stable around her, the shining sun, and the other horses wandering aimlessly around the corral. Shaking her head, the mare realized that it didn’t hurt to do so. For that matter, she didn’t feel anything trickling from her nose, nor did her ears hurt.

“Where have I been?” she asked herself, getting to her feet, aware of the fact that she could do so under her own power. Taking a guarded step, she trotted around the corral, feeling no hint of the dizziness that had crippled her. She happened to catch sight of Ernest coming out of the house, rolling up his sleeves. Taken aback at the sight of her, Ernest stopped in his tracks, staring straight back at her.

“Aunt Nihilsa!” he called, not taking his eyes off of the mare, who in turn didn’t take her eyes off of him. “The horse is up…and she won’t stop staring at me!” Content that her reputation was still intact, the mare smirked in her mind, ambling back to her stall. To her immense surprise, she saw Hannibal, disheveled and unkempt, sound asleep in her stall, reclined against a bale of hay.

“Has he been…” her thought trailed off before she could complete it; she knew the answer. Even through her hallucinations, she remembered that his face had been there to call her back. It had been he who held bowls of vegetable broth for her, he who brushed her gently, and he who walked her nearly every second of every day and night. As much as she wanted to maintain her standing grudge against him, she found herself feeling indebted, even grateful to him. Sighing, she walked over to him, nudging his head with her nose. The mage jerked awake, nearly giving himself whiplash. 

“Wha-?!” he sputtered, going on reflex. The mare blew her lips, hoping he would remember the sound. She was satisfied as he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. “Girl, what are you doing up?” he asked incredulously, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Just screwing with your head,” she thought, rolling her eyes. Whether he ignored her expression or didn’t see it entirely, he made no reaction to it. He stood up straighter, looking at her closely.

“You look wonderful,” he said after a few moments. “It’s like you were never even sick.” Confronted with the sight of his relieved smile, the mare began to feel a little strange. She wasn’t angry, and she wasn’t frustrated; she just felt…nice. 

“I don’t know if I can handle this,” she thought, unsure as to how to react. Fortunately she was given a reprieve.

“Well look who’s back!” Nihilsa’s voice rang from the house. Hurrying out to the two souls standing in the corral, she grabbed an apple from a bucket on the porch, shifting the baby in her arms so she could hold her with one hand. “You’re a fighter, there was never any doubt about that,” she said, holding the green fruit out to the horse, who accepted it with elation. “But, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone work harder than Hannibal did to help you get well.” Hannibal blushed at Nihilsa’s complement.

“I did what any man should do for a lady,” he said, trying to keep his cheeks from getting pink, to little avail. 

“Yeah, but even the most chivalrous man would sleep, eat and bathe, rather than go six days without much of any.” Nihilsa countered. The mare had been wondering what Hannibal’s strange aroma was.

“That answers that,” she decided. Hannibal’s face grew even redder. 

“Is it that bad?” he asked, sniffing his robe and recoiling almost instantly. “It seems that it is.” Nihilsa chuckled, bouncing the baby, who had begun to fuss.

“Why don’t you go back to the guild and get some of each, she’ll be fine for tonight,” Nihilsa suggested. “I think Ernest and I can manage if she’s going to be this mild.” Hannibal scoffed, gesturing to the baby with his head.

“If she’s this mild I think Clesa could manage her,” he said, patting the mare on her forehead briefly, though she shied away slightly. “I think I’ll come back and say good night to her though.” Nihilsa nodded.

“Whatever you like Hannibal, she’ll still be here,” she said. 

“Damn right,” the mare said as Hannibal reluctantly made his way to the gate and out. “I’m not going down that easily.”

True to his word, Hannibal returned later that evening, two apples in his hand and a blanket flung over his shoulder. Looking at them hungrily, the mare walked toward him, stretching her neck to retrieve one. Pulling them out of her reach, Hannibal shook his head.

“When you take five mouthfuls of feed, then I’ll give you an apple,” he coaxed, pointing toward the feed trough. Wrinkling her nose, she looked toward the trough, inspecting the feed critically. 

“It looks like wood shavings,” she muttered unpleasantly in her head. Taking as small of a bite as she could, the mare chewed the feed warily, analyzing the taste while Hannibal looked on hopefully. Maybe because she was hungry, or because she hadn’t eaten normal food for a long time, but she didn’t find the feed to be as terrible as she thought it would be. It had a certain crunchy, chewiness to it, and the flavor wasn’t unlike oatmeal. In fact, the five bites she had to take were almost enjoyable, though she didn’t forget about Hannibal’s promise of an apple.

“Do you think you could take five more for another apple?” he asked as she savored the sweet juiciness, holding the second crisp fruit up, tempting her. 

“You’re pushing it mage,” she grouched, hesitating only a little before swallowing what was left of the apple and filling her mouth with the feed. As soon as she finished, she turned to Hannibal, her face fixed in a demanding scowl. He smiled, handing her the apple.

“A deal’s a deal,” he said, a look of satisfaction on his face. The mare was surprised as she realized that her stomach was sated for the first time during her animal life. She had almost forgotten how nice it was to not be hungry. “I brought you a new blanket,” Hannibal said, leading her over to the stall, which Ernest had mucked out and refilled with fresh hay. “I thought maybe you didn’t like the way the wool felt on you, so I found an old quilt in a crawlspace at the guild.” 

“Actually, I didn’t like it because I wanted to get on your nerves,” she thought as he held the quilt up for her to see.

“I want to brush you one more time, then if you like, I’ll put this one on you instead,” he explained, draping the quilt over the stall and finding a brush. The mare simply didn’t understand this man. She had been nothing but difficult, and made him miserable, made him wait on her hand and foot when she had been sick, and he was still going out of his way to make her comfortable. Her puzzlement must have been written on her face.

“Are you wondering why I took care of you all this time?” Hannibal asked, taking notice of the horse. “Even after I told you that you might not be worth the trouble?” The mare nodded, the one means of human communication she had. For the first time, she voluntarily allowed him to brush her down as she listened.

“It’s because we are mere shadows in this world, girl, cast according to the light that hits us,” Hannibal said softly, taking great care in his motions. “Some lights make shadows dim, some bright, some badly distorted, some revealing what we really are. The trick is to know the difference between bad light and the true self.”  
He stopped his grooming for a moment and looked directly into the horse’s eyes. “I believe you were cast in a bad light child, for perhaps longer than either of us knows. This will be your chance to see if you can find your light. If you can learn to care enough for someone else, perhaps you can earn your humanity back.” He smiled at her, rubbing the space between her eyes. She wasn’t sure what had happened, whether he had muttered a spell on her or not, but she felt an almost cathartic feeling come over her body.  
The meager knowledge that, despite what she had done, on that day and all the days before it, someone could still believe she wasn’t all bad, was strangely comforting. 

“I still think you’re crazy,” she thought, feeling her eyes growing terribly heavy, the mare let herself drift into her first night of sleeping upright in a long time. Spreading the quilt over her, Hannibal patted her on the nose one more time. 

“Sleep well…Shadowmere.” Her eyes popped open, jerking her head toward Hannibal. Had he just called her…Shadowmere? 

“A name?” she tried to say, a wave of emotion swept over her. The noise she made got Hannibal’s attention again.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Since you won’t let me read your tablet, I have no idea what your real name is. Do you like ‘Shadowmere’?” She nodded slowly, having no way to tell him that reading her tablet wouldn’t reveal her name. Remembering the slashes Tavrel had given her in place of her name, she wasn’t sure if she even had the scar anymore; perhaps all her marks had been erased with her transformation. It was strange, she didn’t want to remember the torment of her childhood, but she didn’t know that she wanted to forget it either. 

“I thought ‘Shadowmere’ might remind you what you are; what all beings are,” Hannibal said, calmly walking away. “Merely shadows.” With that, he nodded his blonde head to her, and disappeared, taking his well earned sabbatical. 

“Merely shadows…Shadowmere…” the words tumbled around in her mind as she allowed her body to relax. “I have a name…Shadowmere…”

The few weeks after Shadowmere’s recovery had brought a new attitude to the black mare. While she no longer loathed the toe-headed mage, she still refused to let him ride her. He seemed to accept this for now and, though it seemed unusual, the two would walk side by side whenever Hannibal exercised her, garnering stares from legion horse patrols, merchants and travelers. He had seemed a little leery of taking her too far from Anvil. Shadowmere suspected it stemmed from not wanting to risk her getting ill again.

“Can’t say that I blame him,” she thought as they walked along the Gold Road. She was getting a little restless at ambling down the same road every day. So it came as a surprise to her when Hannibal spoke up one day.

“I received word from the University yesterday,” he said as they passed the Brina Cross Inn on their way back to Anvil. “Delmar’s finished the repairs to my staff, and I can come pick it up whenever I choose.” He stopped and looked at Shadowmere. “How would you feel about leaving for the Imperial City tomorrow?” Shadowmere felt her ears perk up as excitement swelled in her chest. 

“Anything you want mage, just get me off this road!” she would have shouted as a series of excited nickers and neighs substituted the words. Smiling at her delight, Hannibal patted her neck.

“Very well, tomorrow it is then,” he said joyfully. To Shadowmere’s disgust, he broke into a rousing rendition of “Sweet Lady of Wayrest,” the song Tavrel had most frequently sung when drunk. 

“It doesn’t matter who sings it or how sober a person is,” she sighed, shaking her head. “It’s still a stupid song.” Luckily for her, they were close enough to the stables that she could gallop ahead, without him thinking she was running from him.

She had considered doing just that; running away. But the thought that perhaps Hannibal was the only one in Tamriel who knew she was actually a woman held her hostage, for lack of a better term. From her comparatively short time as a horse, she knew that if she was owned by almost any other person, she would be treated as what she looked like. 

“Hey there Shadow girl,” Nihilsa greeted her, having just finished mucking out the horse’s stall. “Ernest found some apples today; they’re in your trough.” Shadowmere’s ears perked up and she trotted over to find that indeed there were apples just waiting for her. Though Hannibal hadn’t told Nihilsa about Shadowmere’s past, the Redguard woman had realized that the mare had a uniquely profound understanding of language. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman shake her head and look toward the mage who was just then arriving at the corral. “I can’t get over it Hannibal,” she said, in habitual amazement. “I’ve never seen such a change in a horse’s demeanor that wasn’t for the worse.” 

“I have to say,” Hannibal said, leaning his elbows against the split rail fence. “I’m surprised as well. She’s even stopped blowing her lips at me.” That wasn’t entirely true, she had done it once or twice behind his back, but she didn’t plainly say “kiss my ass,” to his face anymore. “Would you mind brushing her down tonight? We’re heading to the Imperial City tomorrow, so I need to get things prepared back in town.” Nihilsa shook her head.

“No, I can take care of her. Did she let you ride her at all today?” Hannibal shook his head. Nihilsa sighed in exasperation. “Why do you keep saddling her if she doesn’t let you ride her?” Though a skilled horsewoman, Nihilsa simply didn’t understand what was involved in dealing with Shadowmere.

“If I give her an inch, she’ll take a mile,” Hannibal said, his resolve firm. “If I don’t make her wear the saddle, she’s going think she’ll never let me ride. This way, it at least keeps the idea in her head.” Though he couldn’t see her, Shadowmere rolled her eyes and blew her lips quietly.

“You’re implying there will come a day when I grace you with the privilege of getting on my back,” she groused between bites of apple. Nihilsa sighed, shaking her head, and bending back over her rake.

“Sometimes, Hannibal Traven, I don’t know who’s more stubborn, you or that horse.” Hannibal chuckled, standing up straight.

“Definitely Shadowmere,” he grinned, making for the city gate. “Without question.” 

“And don’t you forget it,” Shadowmere shot, giving a defiant whinny to him as he waved good-night to her. She trotted out of her stall and danced around the corral for a little while, watching Nihilsa and Ernest going about the evening routine. Sometimes, Nihilsa would do the chores with little Clesa in a sling around her chest, which Shadowmere couldn’t help but be impressed by. 

“She’ll be around horses her entire life,” Nihilsa had told a customer once. “Might as well start her now.”  
Shadowmere had learned, through various eavesdroppings, that Nihilsa’s husband was a merchant killed by a highwayman while he was out on the road. Though it had been up near Bruma, an area Shadowmere had regularly avoided during her life of crime, she couldn’t help but feel sickened by the thought. How many wives and children had she done that to? How many lives had she changed with her violent ways? She shook her head, not wanting to think about that part of her life.

“Damn conscience,” she thought. She’d never had this problem before. She watched for a moment as Ernest brushed down one of the white horses in the corral, sparing her a suspicious glance every few moments.

“Aunt Nihilsa, Shadowmere’s staring at me again,” he called. “Can you come brush her down?” Shadowmere grinned wildly in her mind. No matter how much her conscience grew, she always enjoyed the simple act of making people feel uneasy. Prancing over to Nihilsa, she couldn’t help but feel pleased.

“Girl, you know that bothers him,” the woman said, taking a currycomb from her pocket and running it over Shadowmere’s back. Shadowmere rolled her eyes, having heard these words of wisdom before. “And let me tell you something else,” she murmured, making brief eye contact with the ember-eyed mare.

“Oh here it comes,” she sighed. Trying not to look as bored as she felt, she listened patiently as Nihilsa continued her grooming.

“Don’t be so cold to Hannibal.” Shadowmere was surprised by her advice. “I’ve seen a lot of people with difficult horses, none as bad as you were, but they were all broken the same way; riding crops, whips and starvation.” Shadowmere knew this was true, though it wasn’t something she had thought about much. Nihilsa shook her head disapprovingly. “Hannibal’s the only one I’ve ever met who managed to tame a horse as difficult as you without breaking it.” She smiled at the mare, scratching behind her ear. “Just remember that.” Nodding slightly, Shadowmere nickered her understanding.

Unfortunately for her, Hannibal’s early morning energy made it difficult for Shadowmere to consider easing up on him.

“Come on Shadowmere!” he roused her jovially. “Long way to go today, we’ve got to be going.” Staring daggers at him, the black mare rose and begrudgingly allowed him to saddle her and lay the saddlebags across her back.

“You make me miss coffee so much,” she thought as he cinched up the saddle, whistling merrily and patting her on the back.

“I know you’re not one for mornings,” he said, opening one of the bags. “So I brought you a bunch of these.” He held a pear out for her. Taking it greedily, she swallowed it almost without chewing. Nudging him with her nose, he shook his head. “Finish your feed first, then you can have another one.” Hating that that particular extortion tactic worked so well on her, she wrinkled her nose and walked over to her trough, eating her feed diffidently. 

“You deny me coffee, fruit, make me eat this crap…I’m beginning to forget why I don’t hate you Hannibal.” As she complained, she saw him carefully folding her quilt and her favorite brush, tucking them into the saddlebags. “Alright, point taken.” She munched down the feed a little less resentfully.

The two headed up the Gold Road not long after that. After a farewell wave to Nihilsa, Hannibal gently tugged Shadowmere’s reins, partly to wake her up a little, and the two began their journey. Neither of them could know that this was to be a momentous day for both of them.

“I…miss…coffee…” Shadowmere thought as they trotted toward Skingrad. She especially missed it as they had walked for several hours, Hannibal regaling her with several different versions of “Sweet Lady of Wayrest.” “Why was I looking forward to this?” It was close to noon, the pair had been exhausted by hunger and Shadowmere felt cranky. A long stretch of open straight road reminded her why she had been so excited; she had been hoping she could run. 

She remembered the feel of the air rushing past her face, blowing her hair out of its braid or bun, the beautiful hotness of her lungs pouring air through her body, the rhythm of her feet hitting the ground like a second heartbeat. They had been ambling down the Gold Road for what seemed like forever, Hannibal humming constantly, Shadowmere listening and looking for good spots to stop and graze. She found that once she got used to it, she really didn’t mind eating grass. She liked it better than oats at any rate.  
She spotted a fresh green patch, untouched by man or beast, and wandered off the road to take her lunch, not bothering to check with Hannibal. 

“Well, I suppose here’s as good a place to stop as any,” he admitted, hesitating only a moment before joining her off the road. Pulling a pear from the saddlebag, he tossed it to Shadowmere, who set it aside to save for after she finished the grass. After Hannibal unwrapped a paper wrapped sandwich, the two ate in silence, accompanied only by the sound of chewing. Looking around her as she chewed, Shadowmere couldn’t help but notice that through the woods, there was a slight path which seemed to lead to a small pond.

“I could run there and back without Hannibal getting uptight, couldn’t I?” she wondered, looking down at the pear. Sparing him a quick look, she noted where she had left the piece of fruit, she bolted into the forest. Unmitigated joy heaved in her breast as she found, to her great surprise, that she could run faster than she’d expected. The air seemed to sing as it flew by her ears and stung her eyes. She couldn’t think in words, she couldn’t think at all. Stretching her legs out as far as they would go, she raced through the trees, leaping what seemed like miles into the air to avoid stumps and fallen trunks.

Splashing into the crystal clear water, she whooped in ecstasy, tossing the water this way and that as she celebrated the most glorious feeling of freedom she had ever experienced. Out of breath, she took a minute to drink some of the water, not caring that her sweaty body had been all through it. A small, glowing, green plant grew near some rocks nearby.

“That could be tasty,” she thought, pausing in her drinking. As she walked closer to it, she heard a faint humming, from the sound of which, came from the plant itself. She shook her head, the sound annoying to her sensitive ears and she decided against eating it. “Probably causes hallucinations,” she decided. Taking one last sip of the water, she started to gallop back to Hannibal, when she realized something. She couldn’t hear him whistling. “He can’t whistle and eat at the same time,” she told herself. Uneasiness crept into the pit of her stomach nonetheless. 

Hurrying back to the road, she reached the Breton, who looked more alert than usual. She had just perked up her ears when a rustling of leaves caught her ear and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a Khajiit highwayman bounding toward Hannibal. 

“You shouldn’t whistle so loud friend,” he advised menacingly. Hannibal looked surprised, dropping the remainder of his sandwich. “It makes you very easy to find.” The Khajiit pulled the sword from its hilt at his side. “Now, your money or your life,” he hissed harshly, his hand wrapped securely around the hilt of the sword. Hannibal only stared at the bandit.

“Just like with me,” Shadowmere remembered. This was all too familiar, and she knew it would play out in much the same fashion if she didn’t intervene. “He did save my life,” she determined. The least she could do was reciprocate. Before the mangy Khajiit could lay a paw on Hannibal, Shadowmere butted the highwayman with her head, putting herself between the two of them, staring down the long bridge of her nose at the astounded criminal.

“A loyal beast to be sure,” he said condescendingly. “But even the most loyal of animals cannot compare with the might of a blade.” In a split second, the Khajiit swung his sword, but in the same split second, Shadowmere turned around and kicked her back legs at the fiend, landing a firm blow against his chest. Letting out an “oof!” he went flying backwards and hit the ground hard.

“Filthy beast!” he spat, charging her intently. Snorting and glaring at the fallen criminal, she dug at the ground with her front foot.

“If only you knew, s’wit.” As she reared up to hit him with her front hooves, the unmistakable sensation of cold steel penetrated her neck, cutting through her skin like it was nothing but scrib jelly. Momentarily stunned, she heard Hannibal shout, and shook herself from the daze. “I am not going down this easily,” she decided, even as she felt her blood draining from her. Weaker by the instant, she grabbed the bandit by the arm and threw him to the ground. Blinded with her resolve, she reared and stomped, feeling bones crush under her feet. 

“So this is how Penny felt right before she died,” Shadowmere realized as she fell to the ground, opening and closing her mouth like a slaughterfish, desperate for air. “I wish…I had…eaten the pear…” she thought remorsefully. The sounds around her grew garbled and distant, a bright flash of light fading to distant watercolor tableau, Hannibal’s face beside her only a smudge, before being encompassed by soothing darkness.

“Shadowmere, come back girl, this isn’t your time my friend.” Hannibal’s voice was so far away Shadowmere was sure she was imagining it. Feeling someone slapping her face, she shook her head to make it stop. “That’s a girl, wake up.” His voice was closer now. She blinked a few times, certain that she wasn’t seeing Hannibal’s face before her. Yet, there he was, smiling, no, beaming, with…pride(?) as her vision gradually returned. 

“Well, I guess I’m not dead…” she assumed as she looked around. Hannibal’s relief was almost palpable.

“You protected me girl,” he said, tugging on her bridle and getting her to her feet. “You put my safety before your own.” Looking closer at the world around her, Shadowmere saw that she was exactly where she had been before the bandit had tried to take her life. 

“Why am I not dead?” she wondered. She noticed the highwayman lying motionless across the road. She nodded towards it, pointing it out to Hannibal.

“As he said, an animal may not be able to withstand a weapon,” Hannibal said simply. “But neither is a Khajiit able to resist an elite destruction spell.” He looked back at the black horse, still glowingly happy. “And you…you have done well Shadowmere.” Undoubtedly emotional, he leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. Confusion was the only feeling that came close to Shadowmere’s state of mind. 

“Then why am I not back in my real body?” she wondered. Hannibal shook his head, making her think he was reading her thoughts.

“This was a big step forward girl, but you haven’t earned repentance yet.” She sighed in frustration, letting her head droop.

“Dying for you doesn’t make up for killing your horse?” she fumed. That was when it dawned on her; this wasn’t about killing Penny. This was about her and her disregard for life in general. It was about the self-centeredness she’d shown. It was about the twenty years she had spent hating the life of the world, and it couldn’t be made up for in a single act, nor could it end just because she wanted it to. Some things were beyond her control, but somehow in letting go of the need for power, she might gain some.  
Looking deeply into her eyes, as though he was speaking to another person, Hannibal spoke again.

“This life you are living isn’t completely a curse,” he said reassuringly. “I think you will earn your humanity back someday my friend. And as long as you defend your caretaker, and show the same selflessness you’ve shown today, you will not die. You at least deserve to have another go at being a person. You were only cast in the wrong light.” 

Shadowmere accepted his words. At least she wouldn’t die a horse. It wasn’t good news, but it wasn’t bad either. 

“This could take awhile,” she thought. She didn’t blow her lips, or perk up her ears; instead she settled for turning to the side, offering the stirrup to Hannibal. Bewildered didn’t begin to describe Hannibal’s expression. 

“You’re going to let me ride you?” he asked hesitantly. She nodded eagerly. 

“Get on before I change my mind,” she thought, trying to summon some impatience, but just couldn’t. Without another delay, he climbed on her back, taking hold of the reins.  
For reasons unknown to her, Shadowmere felt freer than she would have thought an animal could be. But then again she wasn’t completely an animal; she would be a person again. “But until then…” 

With that thought, she broke into a full sprint, stretching her legs as far as they would go, the wind singing, and Hannibal holding on for dear life. 

* * *

“Shadowmere…” the voice was so soft, Shadowmere wasn’t sure she was awake. “Shadowmere…” the voice was more insistent now, as she batted her eyes open, seeing Lucien standing before her. “Come now my dear girl, time to go home,” he murmured fondly, patting her cheek. Looking around sleepily, she was surprised to see that someone had tacked her while she slept.

“Has it really been thirty years?” she wondered, recounting the life she’d spent the night dreaming about. It had been; thirty years never aging, but always gaining the wisdom that went along with it. Many of those years had been spent with Hannibal, but when he was named as head of the Anvil Mage’s Guild, he reluctantly gave her into the care of another mage, who in turn, gave her to another, and so on and so forth. She had been a faithful companion and guardian for many people, from Hannibal and now to Lucien. Even through all those different people with different personalities, her name had remained Shadowmere. Why, she wasn’t sure. 

Shaking her head to wake herself up, she let Lucien Lachance mount her and urge her through the split post fence gate. 

“While we have this time together girl, I think I ought to tell you something.” Her daydream interrupted by Lucien’s voice, Shadowmere was slightly annoyed, but being a captive audience, listened to what he had to say. “The black hand is near turmoil,” he said, oddly calm for saying something so disconcerting. “I’ve a plan to help make things right, but I fear it will not be enough. If something is to happen to me, I cannot guarantee that you will be safe, and because of that, I see no other choice but to give you into the care of another member of the Family.” Shadowmere felt her heart sink, her head dropping as she walked. 

Another new master or mistress…another chance to be treated like a horse. She had had several owners before; most of whom treated her exactly as she looked; like an animal. She wasn’t foolish, she knew what she looked like, but her spirit would never lose its human form. Only Hannibal and Lucien, and on the rare visit to Cheydinhal, Mivryna, had treated her as she felt she should be. She wasn’t in any hurry to break in a new owner.

“Believe me girl when I say this isn’t what I want to do, but it’s the only way I can protect you the way you deserve. The woman I have in mind is good; she will take excellent care of you. She doesn’t talk much, but she is devoted to the Brotherhood, of which you are a part.” The irony of that fact never ceased to amuse Shadowmere; she had started out killing a member of the Dark Brotherhood and most likely could have been a valued asset to the blood-lusty order, able to turn her hate and skill as a killer to her financial advantage. 

Now she was perhaps the only member of the Brotherhood who didn’t have to kill. That suited her now just fine; her shadow wasn’t cast in that light anymore. Holding her head high, she trotted toward Fort Farragut, saddened that this would likely be the last ride she would share with Lucien. She couldn’t help wondering what this newest owner would be like. Would she be gentle like Hannibal, or intimidating like Lucien? Would she be something unlike either of them? She couldn’t help but wonder. 

The remainder of the trip was made in silence. It seemed like Lucien was trying to maintain a professional air, if only to keep from showing emotion. When he dismounted her, Lucien turned to face her, caressing her cheeks with both hands.

“I’ll be back to say goodnight later,” he said, taking the saddle from her back. “Our Sister will be here to fetch you in two or three days. That will give us some time together.” Perhaps a little sadly, Lucien rubbed her nose before descending into the darkness of his home.

The two days either crept by like molasses in Morning Star, or slipped away like mead through a Nord for Shadowmere, depending on if she was spending time with Lucien or not. As much as he tried to console her, more to console himself, she thought, she knew that the parting would be hard on both of them. It always had been and it always would be. That was one thing she didn’t like about immortality; she had to say far too many goodbyes. 

The end of the second day was when Lucien brushed her down for the last time, taking his time and using smooth, gentle strokes.

“Saeana’s not as tall as I am, so she may not be able to brush you like you’re used to,” Lucien said, who seemed eager to break their silence. Shadowmere didn’t even prick up her ears, or otherwise react.

“What would he expect me to say?” she thought. As terrible as the goodbyes were, the few moments leading up to it were the worst. Putting the brush back in her saddlebag, Lucien rubbed the mare behind her ears.

“Good bye Shadowmere,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers in an uncharacteristic demonstration of emotion. “Take care of yourself.”

“Goodbye Lucien,” she thought, deeply sad that he couldn’t hear her say it. He turned and walked away, not once looking back at her. Disparately, Shadowmere walked around the ruined fort, not sure what she was looking for. Normally, she’d go for a run to make herself feel better, but didn’t feel like it. “I hate the waiting game,” she muttered, munching at an apple she’d found a few days earlier and decided to save. She rested her head on a ledge and set about brooding. While she knew she was supposed to learn how to accept that things were beyond her control, she rarely ever felt good about it.

Not long after the two parted ways, an average height Dunmer woman approached the incline to the ruined part of the fort where Shadowmere spent the better part of her days. She wore her dark red-brown hair partly pulled back, with the tendrils in the front in wind braids. She was very pretty, but didn’t look like she had ever smiled.

“I know that feeling,” Shadowmere reminded herself. The woman, fairly young from the looks of her, met Shadowmere’s eyes with her own.

“You must be Shadowmere,” she said softly. She held an apple out to Shadowmere, the same peace offering most of her previous masters and mistresses brought. “I’m Saeana.” Prodding herself to be pleasant, Shadowmere accepted the offer, chewing it almost unwillingly. “Is it alright with you if I get on your back?” This was a little surprising to Shadowmere, raising an eyebrow as she looked at Saeana.

“Well that’s a first,” she thought skeptically. Saeana shrugged, her rose-red eyes brightening a little at the horse’s reaction.

“It just seems polite to ask,” she explained. “I would find it strange to have a complete stranger walk up to me, hand me some fruit and climb on my back.” Shadowmere couldn’t help but warm to the woman a little, turning to the side and jerking her head to the stirrup. Clearly taken aback, Saeana nonetheless climbed on her back without another word. “Lucien tells me you’re pretty fast,” she said once Shadowmere started walking.

“That’s an understatement,” Shadowmere scoffed in her mind. 

“Maybe when we get to the road, you could show me what you can do.” Grinning devilishly in her mind, Shadowmere silently agreed, hoping the Dunmer could hold on tight enough.

* Epilogue *

A few months after their meeting, Saeana and Shadowmere had gotten used to one another. The one thing that brought them closest together, besides Lucien and the Dark Brotherhood, was the love of running and riding. No matter how fast Shadowmere ran, she always felt that it wasn’t fast enough for the Dunmer. 

With Saeana urging her to go faster, Shadowmere was only too willing to oblige as they made their way north, racing with a tailwind. However often she did so, she never tired of the sound of the air in her ears and the slight sting of the wind in her eyes, and it seemed Saeana never did either. 

“Alright girl,” she said after an hour, tugging on her reins gently. “Let’s stop and rest for a few.” Reluctantly, Shadowmere did as she was asked, slowing her pace to a trot, then a walk, then a stop. Saeana jumped off the saddle, patting Shadowmere on the cheek. “Get yourself a drink,” she said, pointing to the nearby stream. “We’re another five hours from Bruma.” Shadowmere shuddered as she clopped to the river, lowering her head to drink. Were it not that Saeana needed to go to Bruma, she would still avoid that area, just as she had in the old days.

“How the Nords stand it, I have no idea,” she thought, sipping the cool liquid while Saeana cracked her back and knuckles. In order to get the fastest speed out of Shadowmere, Saeana rode hunkered down, her face and hands buried in the horse’s mane. She had turned out to be one of Shadowmere’s favorite mistresses. Not only did she treat her like a person, she also let her run to her heart’s content. It didn’t hurt that she was of Shadowmere’s natural race either. 

As she went back to drinking, Shadowmere caught sight of a grove of trees; they looked oddly familiar. Lifting her head to look around, she realized everything looked familiar. The remains of a small house in the distance set the memory in stone.

It was Tavrel’s house. Involuntarily, she began to shiver at the sight of the house that held so many terrible memories. Seeking comfort, she waded out of the water, trotting over to Saeana. The Dunmer looked carefully at the troubled horse.

“What’s the matter girl?” she asked, rubbing Shadowmere’s forehead. Shadowmere shook her head wearily. 

“I couldn’t begin to expl-”

“Get your hands up!” Her thought was interrupted by a long gone, but not forgotten voice. Both woman and horse turned and saw a middle-aged, beer-bellied Dunmer aiming a bow at Saeana. For the first time in over thirty-five years, all the years since she’d run away from her home, Shadowmere was afraid. Looking beyond the worn, rusty weapon, she was confronted with the face of her former care-taker. 

Tavrel.

Though damaged by age and self-abuse, the cruel eyes, slate colored skin and smirking face were undeniable. 

“Who the hell are you?” Saeana asked, her tone demanding as she put her hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes. 

“I’m the one who’s going to put an arrow through your chest if you don’t get your damned hands up!” he yelled, pulling his arm back further.

“Just try it,” Saeana dared, never once looking away from him. Shadowmere was horror struck. She knew Tavrel had never turned down a dare. In a fraction of a second, everything seemed to happen at once. Tavrel loosed the arrow and Saeana nearly dodged it, but it struck her in the upper arm. Realizing he had no more arrows, Tavrel leapt at her, Saeana letting out a cry of shock, pain and rage. Her mistress’s voice was all Shadowmere needed shake her from her fright. 

Baring her teeth, she let out a peel of rage and grabbed Tavrel with her teeth, pulling him off of Saeana and hurling him aside. Pinning Tavrel to the ground with one of her front feet, Shadowmere glared down at him as he squirmed and writhed like a worm on a hook.

“Let me go!” he whimpered, more like a child than a man. Her mind pulled her in every possible direction. 

This was all she had ever wanted; the man who had come so close to ruining her, had brutalized her in every possible way, was at her mercy. She could do whatever she wanted to him, and no one would complain; Saeana would probably praise her to the moons and back. But, to her pure shock, she didn’t want to kill him. He was pathetic; weak. He was a coward who dealt with his problems by destroying those who couldn’t defend themselves; just as she had done. She had been worth a second chance. It would be nothing less than hypocrisy if he weren’t entitled to the same chance. On the other hand, she had lived her life as she had because of the way he had treated her. She glared down at him again. He was crying; little more than a gigantic, sniveling child. 

She reluctantly lifted her foot off of him, lowering her head to look at him more closely.

“Keep your hands off her.” She had only intended to think it, but found that, after more than thirty years, she was listening to the sound of her own voice; her Dunmer voice. 

Beside himself with fright, Tavrel gasped at the realization that the horse was speaking to him.

“O-okay!” His voice was more of a squeak. 

“Don’t ever put your hands on anyone or anything EVER again,” she said, not letting on her joy at the sound of her own words. Tavrel nodded frantically. “Go to the Cheydinhal city guard and turn yourself in for fifty years of domestic abuse.” His bright red eyes widened in horror.

“How do-”

“Doesn’t matter how I know, do it, or I’ll drag you there myself.” As he scrambled to his feet, Shadowmere watched as he disappeared down the road, his aged legs moving surprisingly quickly. 

Feeling suddenly ill, Shadowmere knelt down, not certain she would be able to keep her balance. The world began to swim, but she remained aware of her surroundings. She heard Saeana’s voice calling her, felt the light of the sun on her back and the smell of the river water, but kept her eyes squeezed shut to hold on to what little balance she had left. 

“Shadowmere?!” As suddenly as it started, the feeling ended, making Saeana’s voice clear to her. Guardedly, she let her eyes open. 

There was hair in her face. Long, night-black hair was in her face, and past the hair, she saw knees. Black leather clad knees, and beneath them, two feet in scuffed black leather boots. Warily, she held out her right arm, finding it was in fact an arm, and found a lapis blue hand attached. Hardly daring to believe it, she carefully inspected the left arm, another blue hand at the end. Putting the hands to her face, she found not a trace of horse hair; just smooth skin, a darling nose, eyes and high Dunmer cheeks. Lifting her eyes she looked up to see Saeana with her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.

“What…do I look like?” she asked, still astounded to not hear nickering when she spoke. At a loss for words, Saeana pointed to the stream’s edge. Gingerly pressing herself to her feet, Shadowmere walked, on two legs, over to the bank, crouching beside it to look in the mirrored surface. She didn’t fully expect what she saw; it was her face, but different somehow. She wasn’t scowling, and didn’t have a single scar. Looking to her side, she caught a glimpse of her shadow, perfectly mimicking her every movement.  
“Merely shadows…” she murmured, remembering Hannibal’s words from so long ago. She stood up and walked back to Saeana, who had managed to compose herself some and clutched the wound in her arm. “Are you alright?” she asked, her hands gently examining the embedded arrow.

“I will be as soon as the arrow’s out,” she said, wincing slightly. “What…what just happened?” she asked, the sun turning her mahogany wind braids into streams of ember framing her uneasy expression. Shadowmere shook her head, laughing a little.

“I’ll tell you while I fix your arm,” she said, picking up the saddlebag that had fallen from her back after her transformation. “It’s a pretty long story.” The two women knelt in the grass, the setting sun making their shadows dance on the dust in the air.


End file.
